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Chat
by Theresa Rite

Text Copyright © 2014 by
Theresa Rite

All Rights Reserved

Editing
by
Editing 4 Indies

Interior Design
by
Drive Around Publishing

Cover Design b
y
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

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.”

“Wha
t 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 G
od.” 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.