Chat

  CHAT

  Theresa Rite

  Chat by Theresa Rite

  Text Copyright © 2014 by Theresa Rite SMASHWORDS EDITION

  All Rights Reserved

  Editing by Editing 4 Indies

  Interior Design by Drive Around Publishing

  Cover Design by Theresa Rite

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First Electronic Edition: May 2014

  First Paperback Edition: May 2014

  For Porter

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sandy

  “San. Sandy, wake up.”

  I cringed at the incessant knocking on my bedroom window. Jason’s voice was muffled through the glass, but I knew it was him before I opened my eyes. “Go away.”

  “She wrote me back.”

  At that, my eyes popped open. I threw my comforter aside, taking a second to make sure I was semi-decent. My tight, brown tank top matched my eyes, a light caramel color that clashed almost comically with my yellow and blue polka-dotted bikini bottoms.

  I barely had time to twist the lock on my window before Jason was lifting the pane. “She wrote me back,” he repeated, and I didn’t have to reach for the lamp to know his lips danced with that infamous grin.

  The Jason Brewer Grin should be an adjective.

  “Brew. I’m excited for you. I really am. But it’s two o’clock in the morning. We have to be at work at eight. And what’d I tell you about using the fire escape?”

  He scoffed, careful to kick his shoes off before swinging his legs over the window sill. He turned to scan the bedroom, cocking one eyebrow. “Numbers is still in Chicago, right?”

  I sighed, bending to snatch my yoga pants off the floor. “Yes, Jack is still in Chicago. Stop calling him that. And his patience with our friendship is running really thin lately, especially now.”

  He ignored me and smirked as I pulled my pants over my hips. “Laundry day?”

  “Laptop!”

  “Alright, alright,” he laughed, holding his palms up defensively. “Can you turn the lamp on or something? I don’t want to trip over your vibrator.”

  I couldn’t help but return his shitty grin. “Shut the fuck up. Hurry up and log in, I need to go back to bed.”

  He settled into my desk chair, wiggling the mouse before clicking on the internet browser. “So she wrote, ‘hey, thanks for reading! It’s nice to hear from guys who read my books.’ Smiley.”

  “What kind of smiley? Winking? Big, open mouth? Regular?” I continued patting my bedside table. “Are my glasses on the desk?”

  He held his hand behind his head, and I reached for the black readers from his fingers, slipping them on.

  “Big, open mouth. Colon, capital D.”

  “Okay, move over.”

  I made a shooing motion with my hands, and he stood, relinquishing my rolling desk chair. “So then I wrote, ‘You’re a great writer.’ But then after I sent it, I thought, will she think I mean great, like Hemingway, because then she’ll think I haven’t read shit and I have no concept of greatness. But if she read great like, you know, you’re cool, hey what’s up, baby, then good ‘cause that’s what I was going for.”

  “Stop being neurotic.” I squinted at the tiny chat screen on Facebook, moving to the messages to make them bigger. His candid profile picture was one that I’d taken last year at a concert. Even last year, at thirty-four, Jason still had piles of wavy, whiskey-blonde hair to match the scruff on his jaw. When he’d turned thirty-five in March, he’d been convinced that his hairline had receded by a quarter of an inch. It took ten more photos and a magnifying glass to convince him that he was wrong.

  “Your eyes still bugging you?” He asked. I shrugged, adjusting my laptop screen.

  “A little.”

  “Bifocals?”

  I ignored his suggestion, reading through the chat transcript between Jason Brewer and New York Times, Bestselling Author Carissa Steel. “Carissa Steel. You think that’s even her real name?” I murmured, scanning the messages.

  Her profile picture was a close-up of her smiling widely at the camera. Not a selfie, but definitely not posed. Her blonde hair framed her face, and her bright, blue eyes teased the camera.

  She was cute. And definitely way younger than we were.

  Jason Brewer: Hi Carissa, funny story. My ex-wife left her Kindle behind, and I started reading in the middle of Measures of You. I stopped, went back to the beginning, and finished the whole book last night. Just had to tell you it was awesome- what a story. Cheers.

  I cringed.

  “Jason. What the fuck- cheers? What are you, British?”

  “What?” He shrugged, bending closer to the screen. I caught a whiff of his cologne, the same one he’d been wearing since high school. “I tried ‘Peace’ but it sounded kind of zoney, you know, all far-out man.”

  “Jesus Christ. Listen. If you want me to help you, you have to write what I say. Verbatim. Look at your profile picture. Is that someone who says ‘cheers?’”

  He shrugged.

  “Okay.” I scooted closer, reading through the other three messages.

  Carissa Steel: Hey, thanks for reading!!!!!! It’s nice to hear from guys who have read my books:-D

  Jason Brewer: You’re a great writer.

  “Hmm. I see what you mean.” I twisted my lips, gathering my long, curly, auburn hair into my hands. “But all those exclamation points. Either she’s excited or just really expressive.”

  And maybe twenty-five years old. Tops.

  Carissa Steel: Wow, thanks!! And tell your ex I said thanks, too ;-) Is she getting her Kindle back lol?

  “Well?” he urged. I adjusted my glasses, resting my fingers over the keyboard.

  “Well. She asked you a question. She’s engaged. She’s interested. You’re adorable in your profile picture, and you like her books. Win-win. Go forth and flirt.”

  “I can’t mess this up, Sandy. You’ve got the degree in English Lit. You’re my best friend. Help me.”

  “You do not need a Lit degree to chat with some romance author on Facebook.”

  “She really is good. Her sex scenes are fucking hot.”

  “Ah, the benchmark of a great writer.”

  He scratched his jaw, nudging me with his shoulder. “Stop being a snob. Expand your horizons a little. Sex with Jack must be earth-shattering. ‘Oh, I’m coming in two point six seconds, are you adequately prepared for my load’?”

  “Jason, stop,” I clipped, though part of me wanted to laugh.

  “I’m right, and you want to laugh,” he stated matter-of-factly, and then cringed. “Okay, never mind, I don’t want to talk about your sex life with Numbers.”

  “Thank God.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I just need a response. Something witty. She lives in Cincinnati. She’s local.”

  I leaned against his shoulder, closing my eyes tiredly. “Okay. Well, she asked you a question. You have to answer it. It has to do with Elaina, so she’s either just making conversation, or she really wants to know if you talk to your ex. Be honest.”

  When I opened my eyes to look up at him, he stared at the screen blankly. I growled, hands on the keyboard.

  He watched me type, reading out loud as I did. “‘-Haha… well, finders keepers. That’s what I learned in divorce court. You live in Ohio?’”

  “Good?” I confirmed.

  He smiled down at me, his lips suctioning to my forehead dramatically. “Muah. I love you. Perfect. Okay, go back to bed.”

  He hit -“reply,”- reaching for the lamp. I stood and yawned, stretching.


  “No use. I’m up.”

  “Get to bed,” he urged, and I followed him to the window.

  “I mean it. Next time, door. Jack… wouldn’t like this.”

  “I’ll use the door next time. For you.” He slipped his shoes back on, shaking his head. “Is he treating you good?”

  “Jason.”

  “Answer me, please.”

  “Yes!” I cried, exasperated.

  “Just checking. I’d treat you better, by the way.”

  I twisted my lips into a smirk, offering him my cheek. He ignored me and pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, and then ruffled my hair.

  “See you at work,” I called softly. “And next time she writes you, just text me. You don’t need to drive all the way over here.”

  He braced his hands on either side of the window before climbing on the metal platform. “I wanted to check on you. You need a guard dog. Or a gun. Both, actually.”

  “Why? I have you, and you have both,” I teased, shooing him out the window. “You’d better stop at Starbucks for me on the way to the office. I know I’m going to oversleep.”

  He saluted me, winking before heading for the stairs. “Night, Boss.”

  Wagging my fingers at him, I closed and locked the window.

  I grinned at the nickname he’d given me on the first day of second grade. His mother had dropped him off at Blue Bird Elementary, and when he attempted to put his Who Framed Roger Rabbit lunchbox next to my Barbie and the Rockers lunchbox, I’d snapped at him. “This is where mine goes. Yours goes by your backpack,” I’d pointed, wrinkling my nose. He smelled like pancakes, and I hated pancakes.

  His hair was too long, shaggy around his eyes, and Crayola Goldenrod. His big, blue eyes almost filled with tears, and I’d immediately felt ashamed at my behavior.

  “I mean,” I started, shifting my eyes toward my sneakers, “you can put it there if you want. I’m just telling you the rules.”

  When I’d looked back at him, the tears in his eyes were replaced by a grin that lit up his blue gaze. “You’re kinda bossy,” he began carefully.

  “You’re kinda tall,” I retorted, not sure if I was insulting him or not. He wasn’t sure either, so he shrugged, exhaling to puff the blond hair out of his eye.

  “You’re kinda... pretty…,”

  Oh, even twenty-six years later, I could still remember the red stain that began on his neck and swallowed his cheeks in that instant.

  My heart beat twice as fast for the first time in my little life.

  He coughed once, shoving his lunchbox next to mine and refusing to look my way. “I mean, you’re pretty tall, too.”

  I’d given in slightly, softening my expression. “What’s your name?” I demanded.

  “Jason,” he replied.

  “Jason, I’m Sandy. It’s short for Alexandra, but I’m not gonna use that name ‘til I get married. And I like what you said the first time.”

  He raised one blond eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “I am pretty. You are right.”

  He grinned, and so did I.

  And from that moment on we were inseparable.

  I stared at the clock on the cable box in my bedroom, willing the time to slow so I could get more than a few short hours of sleep. Despite my Masters in English Literature, and Jason’s Bachelor’s in Business Management, we both worked for the same insurance company within the gray-carpeted walls of cubicle land.

  Well, mine was a cubicle. He had his own office with a door and everything, given his recent promotion to sales manager.

  I had been worried that the new dynamic in our friendship- he being my boss- would pit us against each other, but he managed to be both fair and professional once we swiped our key cards and began our work days. After eight months of reporting to Jason, I realized that there was nothing better than working for your best friend.

  “It’s because you’re not a fuck-off, San. You do your job, and you do it well.”

  My first performance evaluation proved that he truly believed what he’d said. He was reasonable in his expectations, and made sure to provide any constructive feedback.

  With Jason as my boss, Jack felt a little more secure in our relationship. He knew that Jason and I had tried dating once, in our late teens, and that it didn’t work out. When Jason got married last year, Jack nearly offered to pay for the wedding.

  “You’re so excited for them,” I’d commented on the way home from the reception, and Jack grinned, reaching over to squeeze my knee.

  “Of course I am. He’s your best friend, so I’m happy for him.”

  Liar, I wanted to shout. Though he refused to admit that my friendship with Jason made him insecure, I knew that it did.

  He’d shown me.

  And Jason and Elaina’s marriage had lasted exactly four months.

  I turned to beat my hands into my pillow, trying to get comfortable. I had a presentation to give at our meeting in the morning, and though I knew Jason would understand the dark circles under my eyes, I wanted to look at least presentable. At thirty-four, I’d begun noticing little lines near my temples that were never there before. No matter how much I tried to stop squinting at the computer screens, I knew I needed to get my eyes checked… especially if a change in prescription was all I needed to prevent the dreaded crow’s feet.

  I closed my eyes, remembering the rainy day that Jason had shown up at my window to tell me his marriage was over.

  Jack was in Miami that time, and Jason had arrived with a fifth of Jim Beam, soaking wet. I ushered him inside and found him warm clothes, but I knew without him saying a word that it was done between him and Elaina. There had been no great cataclysmic event, no infidelity, no fight that culminated between them; she simply said “I don’t love you, after all.”

  They’d only dated for five months before he’d proposed to her.

  Elaina was a semi-successful model, and she and Jason had met while she was filming a commercial for Driven Insurance.

  “I should have known that she’d leave,” he’d finally said, after Friday the 13th, Jason Takes Manhattan. Since eighth grade, it’d become our tradition that after a break-up we would drown our sorrows in pizza, Sarsaparilla Cream Soda, and a Jason Voorhees marathon. We’d traded the cream soda for beer sometime after Max Grierson took my virginity and then dumped me two days later.

  I could only hug him, my own heart breaking with his sorrow. “How could you have known? When you give, you give yourself, Jason.”

  He’d taken a long drink, turning the volume down as credits rolled. “Whitman.”

  “Yes, Whitman’s quote. And it’s true, for you. You don’t hold anything back when you love someone. And if she changes you, I’m going to hunt her down, carve her up with a sickle, and sell her plastic tits for scrap.”

  He’d laughed at that, but I meant every word. Jason held nothing back when he fell for someone, and I knew that was what made him so attractive to the opposite sex. Well, that, and the fact that he looked like he’d stepped off a surfboard and into a boardroom. He had that fresh-air, sun kissed complexion, and, coupled with his careful diet and workouts, had the ability to send jaws hanging and panties dropping when he walked through the door.

  I was used to his charm and knew his mannerisms like the back of my hand, but it took one wink and one grin from Jason Brewer to make any girl feel like she was the only female in the room.

  Now, he had his sights set on an author he’d never met. Perceptively unattainable. Made sense, given that this would be the first time he’d shown any interest in dating again after Elaina left. As though he knew what I was thinking, my cell phone buzzed.

  Brew. She wrote me back.

  Me. Sounds desperate.

  Brew. You’re getting bitter in your old age.

  Me. I’m TIRED.

  Brew. Calm down, shouty caps. What should I say?

  My fingers paused over my iPhone.

  Me. Well, what did she write back?

  Brew.
She wrote this… Haha! Yes, I’m from Cincinnati. I’ll be doing a book signing in Cleveland. It’s sold out, but I have a ticket if you’d like to go.

  I read his response twice before typing, Any smileys this time?

  Brew. No

  Me. Hmm. She’s interested. Tell her sure, that sounds fun, and offer to pay for the ticket.

  Brew. Skinny white chocolate mocha, extra shot of espresso coming your way. Thanks babe.

  Me. Don’t forget the whip.

  Brew. I won’t. How many stars?

  I smiled at our usually goodbye.

  Jason’s little brother, Scott, was born when we were both nine. The night his parents were in the hospital, Jason slept over my house for the first time.

  We camped out in the tent in my backyard, staring up at the netted window near the dome. We were so excited about the baby, neither one of us could fall asleep. Finally, I suggested counting the stars.

  “I’m gonna need two hundred stars before I fall asleep,” Jason had said, turning to face me.

  “I’ll need three hundred,” I’d replied.

  I smiled at the memory, texting quickly.

  Me. A half a star. I’m sleeping right now, in fact. SNORE.

  Brew. LOL. Night Boss. Thanks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jason

  I could barely wait for Sandy to finish her presentation, which I’d fondly labeled in our dry run “Death by Power Point.”

  She followed me to my office, and I closed the door, immediately yanking at my tie. “You did a great job. The results look much better than last month.”

  “Cut the shit,” she said with a grin, nodding toward my laptop. “Come on, what’d she say?”

  I dropped to my desk chair, and she sat across the desk, turning my laptop screen more her way. I yanked it back, my eyes darting to the glass window near the door.

  “I can’t show you here. But she’s twenty-six, single, and holy hell, San. I need your help.”

  “You don’t need my help,” she scoffed, standing and tugging her skirt down before smoothing her crisp, white shirt. I took a second to appreciate how cute she was in her office outfit before crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back in the chair.