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Can't Text This (Page 7)

Me: Yes.

Four

Robbie

Me: Can we go back to Saturday? I cannot stop thinking about you up on top of that counter. It’s a sickness at this point.

I am a disgusting, shameless man.

But a very prompt, disgusting shameless man.

I waited until 5:01 PM to text Monty again.

Sure, my opening line could use some work, but I’m not lying to her. I’ve been halfcocked and ready to go since Saturday night.

In fact, no amount of masturbation—and there has been plenty—has been able to touch this need inside me.

I reflect on what Zach said earlier, and perhaps he was right on the money: I didn’t finish things with Monty, and if there’s one thing I am in life, it’s a finisher.

The fact that she walked away without letting things come to a natural, satisfying end with us is killing me. I can’t handle it.

I want more. I need more.

Monty: 5:01, right on the dot.

Me: Did you expect anything else?

Monty: I don’t even know you, but I can safely say no. It’s exactly what I expected you to do.

Monty: Shouldn’t you be driving home from work and not texting?

Me: I’ve been off work since three, thank you very much.

Monty: Shoot, maybe I should go work for MY best friend. Those are some nice perks you got there, Mr… Wow, I don’t even know your last name.

Monty: That realization just made me feel so…dirty.

Me: Cross. My last name is Cross.

Monty: Hi Robert Cross. I’m Montana Andrews. Even though you’ve already had your tongue down my throat and your hand up my skirt, it’s nice to officially meet you.

Me: Likewise, Montana.

Me: Okay, I’m just gonna say it: that’s a weird name. What gives?

Monty: It’s where I’m from.

Me: No, it’s not.

Monty: Is too.

Me: You do not look like you’re from Montana.

Monty: How exactly does one look like they’re from Montana?

Me: You know, lots of jean jackets and cowboy hats and boots. Everyone rides horses and chases bulls there.

Monty: Is THAT what people think of us?

Me: The geographically challenged, only lived in one place his whole life people do.

Me: That’s me, in case you didn’t catch that.

Monty: Golly, I’m so glad you explained that one to me.

Me: Smartass.

Me: You’re sexy, but you’re a smartass.

Monty: You like it.

Monty: ^^I’ve never said anything like that before.

Monty: Moving on. So you’ve lived here your whole life?

Me: Yes, around these parts. We lived in a few different towns but finally settled here.

Me: How’d you end up on the east coast? Work?

Monty: Life. I had some…relationship troubles and decided to start over, so here I am.

Me: That’s a big move. I hope the “relationship troubles” weren’t anything too serious.

Me: And in case you wanted CliffsNotes for that text, I meant please fucking tell me your relationship troubles don’t involve an abusive ex.

Monty: Oh, gosh. No, nothing like that. He just wasn’t good at sleeping in one bed at night is all.

Me: Good. I’m glad to hear that.

Me: Annnnd that came out wrong.

Monty: LOL I knew what you meant.

Monty: It’s fine though. I’m enjoying the eat couches now.

Monty: EAT COATS

Me: Please, tell me more about eating couches and coats. I’m intrigued.

Monty: EAST COAST

Monty: That was exhausting.

Me: It was very enjoyable on my end.

Monty: You’re probably just laughing your bum off over there…

Me: Bum? You don’t even cuss in text?

Monty: *blushes* Erm, no.

Me: Is it weird that I find that hot?

Monty: I find your cussing hot, so perhaps not.

Me: Perhaps.

Me: You sound so…buttoned-up.

Me: Which I also find hot, and that makes no sense to me.

Monty: Me either.

Monty: Out of curiosity, what type of girls are you normally attracted to?

Me: The exact opposite of you.

Me: I don’t mean that to sound harsh, but it’s true. I’ve only had two real relationships in my life and both were with women who were bold and didn’t require an entire bottle of sunscreen to go outside.

Monty: That last part made me laugh because it’s so true. Being a ginger is a real struggle.

Monty: The first part reaffirms my whole we’re not each other’s type thing. I don’t know why we’re bothering texting.

Me: Scroll back through and read my message from 5:01. Then you’ll know why.

Monty: Oh.

Me: Yes, “oh”.

Me: And because it intrigues me that I’m still thinking about you.

Me: My best friend Zach has a theory about this…

Monty: Your best friend that’s your boss?

Me: Same one.

Monty: YOU TOLD HIM ABOUT WHAT WE DID?!

Me: Nooooooo, definitely not.

Monty: You’re lying. I don’t know how I know it via text, but you’re lying.

Me: Fine. You caught me.

Me: But can you blame me? Our time spent in the bathroom was HOT!

Monty: I told my sister.

Me: See? Now we’re even.

Monty: About this theory…

Me: Right. (You get me distracted so easily…) His theory is: we need to bang.

Monty: EXCUSE ME

Me: You read that correctly.

Monty: We need to “bang”. That’s his advice to you?

Me: Yes, and he’s a certified woman whisperer, so I trust him.

Me: Fun fact: he and his—as he’d want me to phrase this—live-in girlfriend met via texting.

Me: Good things can come from random encounters.

Monty: You’re advocating for us to bang?

Me: Yes.

Me: What do you say?

Monty: No.

Me: Hm. I didn’t see that coming.

Monty: YOU DID TOO!

Me: Fine. I did. But what do you say we get to know each other a bit and then see about the banging?

“You still texting her, man?”

I grin at my best friend. “Yeah. I brought up your banging idea.”

We’re in Zach’s basement, our old office, where a video game marathon is happening. Xavie liked the idea of spending time with Zach and Delia so much he demanded I drive him over here after camp was over for the day.

I gave in easily, only because I wanted Marshmallow snuggles.

The pygmy goat is the only one who likes me out of the three. Milk Chocolate and Graham Cracker snub me every time I try to get close, the little shits.

As if he knows I’m thinking about him being my favorite, Marshy snuggles into me closer, and I run my hand down his back. At least someone loves me.

“I wanna bang!”

Zach’s eyes bulge from his head. “Uh…”

“My friend Marty from school bangs all the time. He and his dad love doing it.”

“This is getting worse,” Zach mutters from beside me.

“Sometimes they bang so loud it wakes the neighbors up.”

“That, um, that sounds interesting, buddy.”

“Can we get some drums so we can bang hard too?”

A relieved look crosses Zach’s face and I clap him on the shoulder.

“Way to save face, dude. You did good.”

“How did you keep a straight face during all that?”

I shrug. “Practice, and because I kind of figured he was going somewhere with it. ‘Banging the drum’ is what they call it at Marty’s. His mom is kinda hippie-ish and they have bongos out in the garage the kids love to play with.”

He glares at me. “Could have warned me, you douche.”

“And miss the look on your face? Nah.”

“Ass.”

“Dad, Uncle Zach said—”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard him.” I glare over at him. “But he won’t say it again, right?”

Zach shrugs, a grin firmly in place.

Fucker.

He nods toward my phone. “What’d she say?”

“It’s…uh… I don’t think it’s promising.”

“You’re you, Robbie—of course it’s promising.”

“I don’t know. She’s not falling for my usual charm.”

“You have charm?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs at his own joke. “You told her you wanted to bang her—that’s not having charm.”

“You told me to tell her that!”

“And you listened to me? I can’t believe that.”

“I hate you.”

“Gromble, gromble, gromble,” he teases.

“It’s grum, moron.”

“Same-same dif.”

I groan and shake my head. “You make me want to take a nap, and I hate napping.”

“Weird, Delia says the same thing.”

He shrugs and continues kicking my kid’s ass in the racing game. Zach’s a big enough nerd not to grant the kid any mercy…even if he is only seven.

My phone buzzes on my knee and it spooks Marshy, sending the goat running.

“Ah, hell. Sorry, buddy!” I call out, and Xavie runs to grab him before he gets loose up the stairs.

“It’s fine. Xavie, can you let him out? Just right there out the back door.”

He coaxes the goat outside to be with his brothers, much faster than I’d ever be able to, and returns to his video game like nothing happened.

“Hey, Dad,” he says, controller in hand, eyes locked firmly on the screen.

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