My mind hasn’t stopped racing all week, but for once it’s all good stuff. I’d say things are back to normal with Sal, but they’re not. They’re better than normal. We’ve been texting non-stop ever since the message. My phone is pasted to my hand; I’m addicted.
After turning off my bedside lamp, I scroll through my phone to reread Sal’s texts. Damn. Layla knows how to get a girl’s attention. She could run courses for guys like me.
Last time we spoke, Sal told me she’s going to have a quiet one this coming weekend so she can catch up on all the things she’s let slide during the first six weeks of uni. I’ve never pulled off a surprise before. I’m not that guy, the one who orchestrates big gestures. Even Sal’s birthday presents have involved her input — a clue, a hint, a straight-up request.
Her voice softened when she said she was happy that I’m taking the time to work out what I want to do, but she misses me, apparently, and wants us to Skype more. My stomach wobbled — guilt maybe? — when she said I seemed more like myself again, and whatever I was doing I should keep doing it.
I still haven’t corrected her on the ‘family friend’ issue, mainly because I don’t want it to sound like something it’s not. If there was any weirdness with Layla — and I’m still not sure there was — then it’s disappearing … no, it’s gone, and I don’t want to do anything to throw things out again. Not over nothing. Not when everything is going well.
I should’ve gone to sleep an hour ago, but my brain isn’t cooperating. I’m back online and lost in everyone else’s lives. Halfway between sniggering at the comments on BuzzFeed and rolling my eyes at a long-winded status update from Murph, the master of online slacktivism, I notice Woody has been tagged in more photos on Sal’s page again.
I tell myself to stop being jealous. It’s nothing.
Don’t click, don’t click, don’t click.
I rarely take my own advice.
Woody’s profile has exploded with new photos since Layla and I pored over it. He’s updated his main picture three times since then; in all of them, his nose is just as burnt, his hair just as messy. Sal has liked the photo, but so have one hundred and seventeen other sheep.
I stare at the endless stream of partying, mates and girls until all the images blur into one ginormous mess.
Shouldn’t have clicked.
* * *
Milo: You up?
Layla: Yeah. Hi
Milo: Hi. I’m in
Layla: ?
Milo: For the road trip
Layla: OH MY GOD! Yes!
Milo: Tomorrow after I finish work? It’s last minute, but Trent’s away — we can take his work car
Layla: Sweet! TGIF road trip! I have work training at Joe’s on Sat arvo so need to be back by 2, OK?
Milo: Done. Get some sleep, driver
Layla: Forgot it’s past your bedtime, grandpa