West by Michele G Miller

Author:Michele G Miller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Michele G Miller

Jules: My hand misses your hand

“Oh, shit.” Sitting up, I fumble with the buttons, reassuring myself that I didn’t send any of the texts I’d written. I see that they’re all sitting in the draft box right where I left them and I release a relieved sigh. What the hell? She sent me a text about my hand at 2 A.M. while I was creating a string of texts to her. Shit. Before I have time to consider what I’m doing I’m calling her. I can’t plot this shit out; I can’t ignore the signs.

For once I’m not sure if it’s my heart or my head making my decisions. I want to hear her voice—that’s all heart. We’re thinking the exact same thoughts at the same time—that’s my head knowing this is fate. I’ll call it a draw.

The call connects and Jules picks up almost immediately. “Hi.”

“My hand misses yours more.” I slap my forehead, groaning inwardly at the admission. So smooth.

“Did I wake you?”

“Nah, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either,” she replies.

I grin because she was thinking of me. She texted me.

“So, your hand just wanted to text me? Let me know she missed my big, tough grip?” I ask playfully, feeling infinitely better than I did only moments ago.

“My hand’s a little whack these days.” She sounds a little disgusted with herself. I know the feeling well; I have twenty or so texts hiding in my phone to prove how “whack” I am.

I don’t admit to my crazy, though. “Why’s that, Buffy?”

“Two A.M. texts to your hand? C’mon, that’s whack.”

“First, stop saying ‘whack.’ You sound like Ruben, and it’s strange. Second, you can call me at any hour. You, or your hand,” I offer.

“Yeah?” she asks uncertainly.

“Yeah.” If she’s whack, then I’m whack too. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes telling myself I was normal, only to hear Jules’ voice and go back to thinking I’m crazy. Yet, speaking to her brings clarity to the events of the last few days. “I think going through a near-death experience together has earned us the right to be a little needy,” I admit, perhaps more for myself than for her.

She’s silent for a moment. “I think you’re right. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I only said it so I’d feel better about the twenty or so text messages I’ve typed up but didn’t send.”

As Jules gasps at my admission, I suppress a groan at my big mouth.

“Twenty? What did they say and why didn’t you send them?”

“Jules—”

“Send them now and I’ll reply back.” Her tone conveys her excitement. I close my eyes and picture her face, her blue eyes bright—

“Come on,” she begs, her voice crashing through my picture of her. “We’re both up, anyway. You chicken, Spike?”

I can’t, I tell myself again and again. She’s got Stuart. Get over yourself, Rutledge. End this now.

“I don’t think we should go there right now, Jules.” My frustration is clear in my voice and my chest ache.

“Go where? Come on . . . I’m hanging up and I want a text in one minute, or my hand will be very mad at yours,” she says smartly.

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