My phone lights up and I quickly grab it off my nightstand. Another text from Carli saying the same thing: Sorry

I don’t respond.

The next day, fourth period, honors chemistry: I’m sorry

Oooo, she added the word I’m. All the words that usually roll off her tongue and this is the best she can come up with? I don’t respond.

Wednesday after basketball practice, grabbing my precalculus book out of my locker to take home:

I

M

S

O

R

R

Y

She’s getting a little creative with it. Won’t lie, makes me smile, but I don’t respond. You see, she ignored sixteen of my texts last Friday and three of my calls (yep, I still remember). I’ve only ignored one-fourth that amount, and she hasn’t even bothered to call. I have to make it to eight, so she at least knows half of how I felt. Yes, petty, but sometimes it beez like that.

Thursday, at 6:47 a.m., same time I used to give her a wake-up text: I’m sorry, Rex

Damn, she gets me with this one. I know it’s only one added word, but it’s my name and I can hear her saying it. I type, I’m sorry too . . . for ignoring you. I miss you. But I decide that once again I’m doing way too much and erase everything.

After school on Friday: What’s your address? I have something to send you

I wonder what it is. Did she buy me an apology present? Maybe some new Js. Did she make a donation to plant some trees in my name? Yo, what if she wrote me a poem and kissed it with glossy lips? Hahaha, I’m being stupid. But really, what if she did? I want to ask her. I want to joke and play with her. I want to talk to her and see her and hug her and kiss her.

But this is only her sixth text. So, I only respond with my address—no hello or how are you doing. She better be glad I’m even texting her back.

Secret Spots

CARLI

Nineteen East Shady Trail is this huge, white, futuristic house surrounded by a pine forest. It has a sloped roof that juts out from the rest of the house, toward the sky, and is perched on concrete piers. As I walk up the steel staircase on the side of the house that leads to the front door, trying to think of the words that will make Rex forgive me, it feels like I’m boarding a giant spaceship. Like maybe, just maybe, Rex will open the door and we’ll blast off to the stars, leaving all our earthly problems behind.

REX