The texts poured in. One after the other, after the other, after the other. 26 in all. Thankfully Issy’s phone had been on Do No Disturb mode. Phone settings didn’t change her difficulties sleeping or her habit of waking up, rolling over, checking the time, before forcing herself back to sleep only to repeat the process again in an hour.
Her 4:30 AM check in had showed her 13 texts, one name. Maybe it was coincidence, but Issy prescribed the theory that restless sleep was indicative that you were in someone else’s dreams. Henry was very much awake, but maybe daydreams in those midnight hours counted toward dreams. Regardless of what it was called, for Henry, Issy would only ever amount to a pipe dream.
It was 6:45 when she woke up with all possibilities of sleep spent. Issy slid around under her covers, savoring the thread count against her skin as she unplugged her cell phone. Careful to ignore the small red circle with the number 26 stuck dead in its middle, she shut off her alarm and took a few minutes to clear her other notifications.
Social posts about books and dogs. The ones her friends shared with her about being a bad bitch and reels from men acknowledging their deficiencies. When her laughter broke open her voice and her smile pushed into her eyes, Issy peeled back her covers and opened the texts from Henry.
By the time Issy reached the bathroom she had already closed her texts. This would require coffee. Perhaps the kind her grandmother made, caffè corretto.
As she scrolled down through the texts, the undiluted hateful child of Henry’s core fully on display, a different conversation seeped through.
One she hadn’t thought about in years. The first actual red flag she saw in him.
She was surprised he had been up for the last-minute ball game. Even more so that he was willing to drive them to the Mets stadium since he was a Yankee fan. Though, as it turned out, the Mets hadn’t been a threat to anyone in years. Least of all THE YANKEES.
He had offered Issy a cigarette. While usually only a social smoker when drunk, she accepted. The plan for the day had fallen by the wayside, why not embrace it?
She had barely lit it when her phone blew up.
HA: Hey. I can come with you to the game. I’ll pick you up in thirty?
???
HA: The Mets game. Today right?
Yes, but I’m already on my way.
HA: So I’ll meet you there, Issy.
No. I’m on my way with someone else.
You never got back to me. I wasn’t holding my breath.
HA: Are you fucking kidding me?
HA: I never get Sundays off.
HA: I had to make sure I could.
HA: I can’t believe you.
HA: I’m just going to come any way.
HA: I’m on my way.
HA: You can’t just take this away from me.
HA: Are you serious, Issy?
I told you I needed to know by yesterday.
You never answered then, you didn’t answer this morning.
Enjoy your Sunday. I have to go.
Ashes were flying across the car, swept up in the competing winds and blaring AC. Issy remembered the ashes. Like embers of Henry’s hostility searing through her phone, raging in the car.
Maybe he called her. A rarity. Maybe he just power texted her. It was so long ago.
Issy looked at her date. She guessed it was a date now. It would have been a date with Henry. Maybe not all friendships are meant to stay there.
“Issy, you okay?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. Taking a deep drag of her cigarette it relit itself. “It’s just the person who was supposed to come just texted me they could.”
“Oh,” he said slowly. “I mean we’re almost. . .”
“No,” she answered filling in the impending silence. “They should have reached out sooner. This will be more fun anyway.”
Issy squeezed the power button of her phone. The color draining to black like the rounds of Henry’s eyes. Eyes that even as she smiled and smoked her cigarette she could feel watching her through her phone.