The Puck Secret: Chapter 3

I’m mildly intoxicated by the time my phone vibrates on the table with a reply, and I laugh at whatever Hallie will have responded before I even move to pick it up. My best friend is the moon to my sun. She has been there for every meltdown I’ve ever had, every boy I’ve ever kissed, and every fight with my parents. I know she can talk me back from almost any ledge, but I’m honestly not sure how even she will be able to come up with a solution for my current predicament.

Sighing loudly, as I continue to sing along to Taylor Swift like every other basic bitch out there, I blindly reach for my phone to read her message. When I swipe up on the home screen I make a mental note to restore my phone from backup in the morning, because I still don’t have her number saved, but when I open her message I frown.

I scoff, wrong number my ass, she should know it’s me, but when I read back over the number I realize whoever sent the message is right. That isn’t Hallie’s number, I put two of the digits the wrong way around and sent the message to a total stranger.

Pushing up into a seated position I start to panic. I just sent my innermost secret thoughts and manic meltdown to a complete stranger, hell they could be a serial killer for all I know. They could be watching me right now and waiting for an in so they can sneak into my house and murder me. Wait, no, that’s ridiculous, I have just been listening to too many murder podcasts and I’m letting my drunken mind run away with itself. It’s fine, this is fine. It’s just a simple case of a wrong number.

I quickly type out a reply and hit send.

And because I am a people pleaser and can’t help but be riddled with panic and anxiety, I quickly fire off another.

I watch the text bubbles pop up and disappear a few times before they stop completely, and I breathe a sigh of relief. See, totally fine. I place my phone back on the table and grab another drink from the kitchen, starting my personal Swifty karaoke session all over again, as I head back to the sofa. When I see the phone light up again I freeze.

Telling myself it’s still fine, I get comfy back on the sofa with my phone and drink, and open the message expecting just a simple ‘no worries’ or ‘not a problem’, but the words lift from the phone as if they are being spoken directly into my soul.

I know that feeling, it’s how I feel pretty much every second of every day. Yes, I’m surrounded by people constantly, but how many of them really know me? The real me, and not just the one I am forced to portray because of my family name. This person might be a stranger, but it’s like they understand me better than any person I do know. So, I ask them the question I ask myself daily.

When I hit send I get a sinking feeling in my chest, because I know they probably won’t respond and this little moment of shared understanding will pass, but then my phone lights up in my hand and I almost laugh out loud at the response.

The smile on my face is so genuine I doubt my father would even recognize it, just like the honesty this stranger just shared. It’s something I can admire.

Thoughts about my cheating father and my now cheating future fiancé enter my mind and I shake my head. If only they knew what honesty was.

When the phone lights up again, I smile.

I think I like this stranger. They are dark and twisty just like the me underneath the mask, and I want them to know how much I appreciate their candor right now.

It’s probably ridiculous to want to share secrets with someone I don’t even know, but sometimes that’s easier than the people who think they know us most, right? Their reply only cements that feeling.

I smile at the nickname they have given me. It suits me, not that anyone other than them would know that. I hope they know how true my next message to them really is.

They will probably find that a weird thing to say, and might not even respond, but I just feel like they had to know that in a world full of gray, today they added a little bit of color.

When my phone lights up again, I feel a warm feeling spread through me. At least someone is listening to me today.

I’m not surprised by their question, it is kind of weird to talk to someone without so much as exchanging names, but I kind of like the anonymity of it all.

A little bit of an insight to who I am, that will hopefully placate them enough until our interaction ends.

I bark a laugh before I can stop myself, I guess I’m talking to a boy, because I doubt a girl would say that. Not unless they play for the same team, which I’m not sure I can say is my thing, but I’d never say never. I’ll try anything once. I fire off another message and take another sip of my drink.

When his response comes through rapidly, my cheeks hurt from the smiling, my body not entirely used to the feeling.

Texting now I know he’s a guy kind of feels like flirting. It’s light and playful, and definitely improves the mood of my shitty night. I feel daring as I tap out another message, this whole thing so unlike me, but it seems after my shit show of a night, I can’t help myself.

Bradley hasn’t charmed me once in the couple of months we have been forced to date, so it’s nice to know that somewhere, out in the world, there are guys who can make a girl smile. I quickly save his number under a new contact as another message pops up.

It would be easy to respond with an answer, and if this guy lives in town, it wouldn’t be hard for him to know who I am, but enough people already know who I am. Or who they think I am. I have no interest in adding another person to that list.

This is just for tonight after all, just one wrong number conversation and then we will go back to living our separate, unknown lives tomorrow.

Another laugh leaves me because he’s right, when I got his message my first thought was serial killer. Now I could be here flirting with someone who could be anywhere between twelve and ninety.

I start immediately praying that I haven’t been sharing my secrets with someone who isn’t even old enough to drive, and I practically break my finger swiping open the next message in the thread.

I roll my eyes at his playfulness, but I can’t deny the relief I feel when he confirms his age. Maybe he’s lying, maybe it’s a coincidence, but I don’t see why he wouldn’t be honest, that’s what this whole conversation is about.

Regret churns in my stomach when I hit send on that question, but I guess it’s instilled in me to believe the worst in people. That way they can’t let you down. His response is instant.

I stare at the words for longer than necessary, but I can’t remember a time when someone has just offered me such a simple promise. My own father can’t even be honest with me, but some stranger I don’t even know offers it without pause, it leaves a sick taste in my mouth.

My fingers hover over the send button for a little while, and by the time I hit it a full ten minutes have passed. I watch my phone closely, waiting for it to light up, but it doesn’t, and when it plunges itself back into darkness, I can’t help but feel lonely and empty all over again.

Just like every other night.