Abby Jamison
The words Can we talk later? stare back at me from the cracked screen of my phone. Those are fighting words that only a person seriously mad would dare to send over text. My heart pounds in my ears. It’s deafening. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. It is like a poisonous fog has enveloped me whole.
Through the haze, I force myself to look at the text one more time. My stomach drops. I would rather smash my phone, run away, change my name, and start a whole new life than deal with this right now. But that isn’t something a sane adult would do. And I don’t really have the funds to make a crazy life change right now. I love being a teacher, but it isn’t the best career for someone who needs to move away when any minor inconvenience occurs.
So instead, I mustered the courage to open the text and reply: Yeah, of course. Let me know when you want to talk!
Instantly, the three ominous dots pop up.
“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath as I curl up on the couch.
Then, the message sends. Great, I’ll call you once I’m off work.
Sounds good!!!! I quickly reply, ensuring that I use extra exclamation marks, so she knows I’m not irritated or upset.
The read receipt pops up, and after three minutes, there is no reply. One hand occupied by my furious nail biting, I use the other to shamefully send the message, Everything is okay right?
No immediate response. Oh my god. She doesn’t know what to say. She wants to talk to me later to tell me that she hates me and that she thinks we should end our friendship. What is she even going to say now? She can’t just casually bring that up, right? What if she does? Should I respond? Should I still talk to her later? Should I try to change her mind? Should I list off all the times she has ever annoyed me and then tell her to go fuck herself? Should I ask her why? Do I want to know the reason why? Oh my god, what if it’s because I ate the last piece of pie at the party last week. I didn’t know she hadn’t had some yet. If I had I wouldn’t have eaten it. But now she probably thinks I’m selfish and only think of myself. Who doesn’t ask their friend if they want the last piece before shoving it into their mouth like a pig? That’s a rule. You aren’t supposed to just take the last piece. But what did I do? I took it. And what’s worse. It didn’t even cross my mind to ask anyone if that was okay or if they wanted it. Jesus. I don’t know what I was thinking. And who wants to be friends with someone like that? Not me, that’s for sure. I can’t even be mad if she doesn’t want to be my friend.
The phone buzzes in my hand, pulling me out of the deep dark depths of my mind.
Yep
Yep? Just yep? No punctuation, no emoji? Just yep?
My hands violently shaking I respond, after fixing several typos, Okay!!! Just checking!!! Talk soon!!
I toss my phone to the other side of the couch, put my face in my hands and groan. Becca is my best friend. I don’t have time to make a new best friend. I spend all day with middle schoolers. Once I’m home, I’m done socializing for the day. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just ask one of my colleagues to hang out. That’s weird and I’m pretty sure they all secretly hate me anyway. So that’s not an option. And I don’t go out enough to meet anyone new. I have my one best friend and I am okay with that! I guess since I might not have a best friend in an hour I’ll have to figure something else out? Maybe a dog, a cat? They will sit and watch Netflix with me, right?
That’s when it pops in my head. A week ago, she sent me a selfie from the couch with a glass of wine in her hand and I responded “Wow, drinking on a school night. What an alcoholic.”
She thinks that I think she’s an alcoholic. It was just a joke. I swear. The woman is the furthest thing from an alcoholic. And even if she were, I’d support her! Well maybe supporting her is the wrong thing to say, but I wouldn’t joke about it! I’d at least try to get her help. And if that didn’t work, I guess I’d have to join in. Solidarity, right? That’s what friends are for?
She sent the laughing emoji after and we carried on the conversation. But she must have been devastated. I didn’t tell her it was a joke. I didn’t even use an emoji or say lol after. Why didn’t I apologize after saying that? I have let her sit around feeling terrible about herself for an entire week? She thinks that I think that she’s a horrible person with a drinking problem. God, I can’t believe I did that to her.
And is that it? If I made such a careless joke without thinking about it, how many other hurtful things have I said over the years. Am I a horrible person? Why has no one called me out on this before?
I stand up and walk to the kitchen. Filling a glass of water, I chug it. Gasping for breath, I slam the glass on the counter and begin pacing, switching between biting my nails and pulling on the ends of my hair, one arm wrapped around my stomach to try to stop the queasiness.
I want to call her right now and apologize. I don’t want her to sit around being upset for another moment. I glance over at the clock. It’s 5:32. There are exactly twenty-eight minutes until she gets off work. But she pry won’t even call me then. She will want to go home, eat, and get in a comfortable position before calling me to tell me all the ways I have hurt her.
I can’t wait that long. I can’t. She needs to know how sorry I am. But I also can’t call her. How unfair would it be if I called to apologize before she got to speak her piece. I can’t do that to her, no matter how much I want to. I have to prove for once that I’m not selfish.
Heading back to the living room, I turn on The Office and scroll through Tik Tok at the same time to distract my mind from the thoughts spiraling through it. If I am going to have to wait for her to call, I am going to spend that time as zoned out as possible. I’ll go crazy if I think about it anymore.
At 6:45 the phone rings.
I stare at it, take a deep breath, then click accept. “Hey,” my voice sounds thin, raspy.
“Hey!” she says through a mouthful of food. She coughs, “Sorry, I don’t know why I took a bite right when I called you. That was dumb. But let me tell you, this mac and cheese hits. I had such a long day.”
Confused by her light, jokey attitude I respond, “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?”
She laughs, “You know, just the typical things. Rude employees and a clueless boss.”
I pause, then force myself to ask, “So, what did you want to talk about?”
“Oh yeah!” she exclaims, throwing me off guard. “We have to plan Janie’s birthday party. It’s in two weeks and I literally forgot about it until today.” She laughs, “And yes, I know that makes me a crappy friend, but I’ve been busy! At least I remembered now, right? We still have time.”
“You aren’t mad at me?” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“What are you talking about?” she says through another mouthful of mac and cheese.
“Oh, nothing.” I pause, “So, where should we have it?”
She starts talking about this elaborate plan she came up with on her lunch break. But all I can do is shake my head and laugh to myself. Once again, I have found a way to lose my mind over nothing. Why do I do this? Will I ever learn? Considering that’s the exact mantra I say to myself each time I find out about a misinterpreted message, my guess is no.