Filthy Foreign Exchange(30)

Guess what else fogs up in a steamy bathroom? The mirror. And on it is his message to me—the best one yet.

There was something in her movements that made you think she never walked but always danced.

I’m instantly aware—this is bad, because once you think something’s gone and it comes back better than ever, your craving for it reaches a whole new, dangerous level. You only fully realize the depth of want and need immediately after experiencing loss.

Too many emotions to name surge inside me, my head the good kind of hazy while the muscles around my heart cinch tighter. I know Kingston and I are just friends, albeit becoming better ones with every effortless interaction. We’re just housemates who’ve found a clever, entertaining way to match wits.

But if it was, if it could be, more…he’d be damn good at it.

I now understand how he’s able to bewitch girls by the droves. It’s not just his strikingly good looks, or enticing accent…it’s him. Those girls are such simpletons, so spellbound by the outside package, that they don’t even realize the entirety of his allure.

But I do. I see his invisible, inherent charm; the sheer seductiveness that emits from his every smile and move; and his keen mind.

Shaking off the silly, romantic musings that have no place in my life, I hustle to get ready for school.

But once I’m in the parking lot, ignoring the bell warning me I’m about to be late, I throw caution—and my better judgment—to the wind, and type out a text.

Me: You’ve read Anne of Green Gables?

The second bell rings as I wait for a response, but for some inexplicable reason, I simply don’t care. Then a different ding sounds—and with it, my heart thrums an anxious beat.

Kingston: No. Should I have?

Me: Yes, great books. But I asked because the quote you left me this morning, which I really liked btw…it’s from one of the books.

Kingston: Ah, well they stole your story then, Love.

I’ve definitely unfairly judged the girls caught under his spell. The choice was never theirs. He’s that good.

Me: How do you figure?

Kingston: I searched “quotes for Echo Kelly” and that came up. As it should. Said it perfectly.

This—he—could get addictive. And lines clearly drawn in my head and heart could easily become blurry, if not completely obliterated, should I sit here any longer.

So I force myself back into friend mode and reply accordingly.

Me: You’re on a roll this morning. Better save some of those savvy lines for the tarts.

I hesitate before sending one last message.

Me: I’m late. Have a good day, playboy!

I run into school, out of breath for two reasons but satisfied with myself for taking back control of the situation that was headed in a direction I dare not explore.

First, you don’t leap from shy introvert who doesn’t date to Kingston Hawthorne: a smooth-talker with a face made for dreams, a body of unworldly men, and the entourage of a celebrity. He’s not the type of guy to get your feet wet with, or you’re sure to drown on your first swim. And secondly, the detour I threw worked, because the texts that continue the rest of the day are back on the track they need to be.

Case in point: In second period, my phone vibrates in my pocket. While the teacher’s back is turned, I read his message under my desk. It’s a picture of a girl I don’t know, and for a moment, I’m confused—until my phone buzzes again.

Kingston: Need my Echo Meter. What do you think?

Now this game I can play without fear of emotional risk.

Me: Does she speak in full, coherent sentences that, in any way, correlate to the topic at hand?

Kingston: You delight me. In comparison to even YOUR texts, no, she’s functional at best.

Well, there’s his answer then.

But before I can respond, he texts again.

Kingston: But yes, it is indeed English she is speaking.

Me: Can you, without spraining your neck, tell what color of underwear she’s wearing?

I glance up at the front of the room. The teacher’s still facing away, scrawling on the board. I have no idea what she’s teaching today, nor do I care. Kingston, among being a million other things, is a fun distraction. And I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so distracted.

He makes me smile, laugh…think. He challenges my mind, which has gone too long without a worthy opponent for splendid banter. Since his arrival, my life has more color in it—vibrant Technicolor that I now find myself stopping to notice and fully appreciate.

I miss my brother something awful. I do. But I’m glad Kingston’s here.

Kingston: She’s not wearing any.

I’m not sure whether he’s just trying to get a rise out of me. I’d hope so, because ew. But either way, it works—I have to slap my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter. I don’t know why I find it so funny. Perhaps I’m just trapped in a perpetually good mood.