Story No. 4: Phone Calls After My Birthday

The jarring honk echoed through my throbbing head, sending my goose blanket sailing off my legs. With a groan, I face the unwelcome noise from the city streets below my window in South End Boston. The leather district, never meant to be bustling on a lazy Sunday morning, was alive with sirens and commotion.

Barely able to open one eyelid, I checked my watch, which clung to my wrist for dear life, revealing the shocking truth—it was 1 PM. The morning and birthday festivities have stealthily slipped away, leaving me with an aggressive hangover. Clearly, alcohol had waged a ruthless war on my brain cells.

Liquid IV became my salvation, my holy grail, as I staggered to the edge of my mattress. Bare toes met cold wood, and I struggled to unplug my phone from its charging sanctuary. Fumbling with the deep pocket of my sweats, I managed to retrieve my phone and headed to the kitchen.

A girl wrapped in a pink blanket caught my eye on the family room couch. "Jen?" I ventured, my voice cracking unpleasantly. The cocoon remained silent, revealing no hint of the person within.

Ignoring the mystery, I reached for the fridge handles, only to be interrupted by the blaring ringtone of Waka Waka by Shakira, vibrating through my pocket. The cocoon stirred behind me.

Panic seized me as I checked my recent calls—two listed as outgoing at 2:08 AM and 2:09 AM. Was that from me? Shit. Dread washes over me as his name lights up my lock screen. I hit accept on this incoming ring and Shakira silences.

"Hi. How was your birthday?" His voice, deep and melodious, eases my tension.

"I'll remember it for sure," I reply, trying to sound casual.

"Didn't get arrested or anything?"

A sigh escapes me. "Well. What would you call this kind of night? Your shoe rots within the first five minutes of being at the bar so you walk around half barefoot the entire night, losing your phone in the women’s bathroom and trace it to a homeless man on the Fenway bridge, and then make friends with him to get your phone back while playing with his border collie dog?”

He chuckles at the madness, clearly more entertained than concerned. “That’s a crazy night, holy shit.” I know I’m crazy. I hope he likes the crazy.

“My question honestly is, where was the connection? Between my phone on the sink in the women’s bathroom and it ends up in Luis’s hands? I–”

“Did the homeless guy just admit to taking your phone?” he chimes in eagerly. I can almost sense the excitement radiating through the phone. It's as if he's more engrossed in this wild tale than I am, relishing every detail of my chaotic adventure. I think he enjoys my crazy.

“I really wouldn’t believe him if he told me he didn’t steal it as I actively traced him to the bridge, and saw him holding my phone. Taylor called my phone and he picked up.” I respond, reaching for my purple water bottle from the light wooden cabinet next to the sleek black island.

“He for sure took it then.”

“Yes, he definitely did.”

“That’s even crazier that you got it back.”

“Yeah. I went up to him and I said, ‘Hi Luis,’ and he said, ‘Hi Marissa.’ And I was like, ‘Cool dog!’ And then it growled at me. And then, I was like, ‘Thanks for taking care of my phone!’ And he was like, ‘Oh yeah no 'prob.’ And then he hands it back.”

A higher-pitched giggle bursts forth from the other end of the line. “It’s almost like he gave you the best birthday present of all.” With the cap of my water bottle unscrewed, I make a beeline for the Brita in the fridge. “Right, oh my goodness. Luis looks out for me, you know?"

The cold water cascades into my bottle. I multitask, balancing my phone with practiced ease. "I tried to fix my shoe by the way. I asked the bar if they had tape and they had neon orange electrical tape. I stole the roll. And wrapped it around my strap religiously.”

“You’ve become one with the streets AND become Bob the builder in one night.”

I erupt in laughter. “Desperate times call for desperate measures I guess. I should have asked him how he got my phone though because that's wack if he went into the women’s bathroom.”

“Sometimes you just gotta use the women’s bathroom. They have free phones in there.”

“-And sometimes just on the sink.”

He chuckles again. “Exactly. Interesting birthday stories though.”

A moment hangs in the air, prompting me to snatch an island chair and sink into its inviting black leather cushion. “Anyways, how are you?” I ask, breaking the lighthearted spell.

"I'm doing alright, I moved into my apartment," he replies, his tone suddenly flat.

I cross my arms. “How's the apartment?”

“I think it’s nice, pretty small, but it’s all I need.” He clears his throat.

Pits churn in my stomach. I find it amusing how I spilled the intricate details of my chaotic night, only to receive a brief overview of his new apartment—an eye-rolling display of total sarcasm on the universe's part. I hold my silence until he continues to unravel more updates about his life.

Then a curveball. "Also, I know you didn't ask, but I appreciate the time we spent together this summer." His words echo in my mind, each syllable reverberating in slow motion.

I’m flattered and caught off guard at the same time. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

“Like, enjoyed talking with you. You’re funny and I liked hearing what you think.” My internal monologue swiftly retorts, No. I think you’re funny. I love hearing what you think. A blush rises, warming my cheeks like an ember slowly catching fire.

“Aw, that’s nice. What’s up with you getting all randomly sappy?” I reply the air tinged with playful sarcasm. Does he likeme, or is this just a casual appreciation of conversation? I dissect his words, searching for nuances in his tone. Is he avoiding the subject of his apartment because it's too personal, or is there something else he's not saying? The air thickens with curiosity, leaving me on the precipice of understanding, yet still suspended in uncertainty.

“I don’t know, I felt like it needed to be said. It felt like it was easy to be personal around you."

This might be one of those rare occasions where someone's actually calling me a good conversationalist, and honestly, it's shedding light on just how terrible I am at gracefully accepting compliments. "I'm a mediocre communicator," my honey-brown eyes shift downward, grazing over my painted red toenails dangling above the cool tile floor.

"I think you’re a good communicator.”

A soft smile lingers on my lips. “I’m happy we hung out. We get along well. I hope we stay close or keep in touch at least, you’re a good guy.”

“I agree. I hope we stay in touch too.” He murmurs, the words falling like delicate petals. Yet, his voice falters, cracking with a vulnerability that hangs in the air. A poignant silence wraps around us as he clears his throat again. It's as if he's delicately treading on the fragile ground of his own emotions, reluctant to reveal too much. The tone, once warm and engaging, slips into an emptiness, leaving a haunting resonance that lingers in the spaces between our words.

I get up from my chair and eye the bathroom door. “Okay well, I am going to fix myself some liquid IV because I am gross and hungover and then I am going to shower, so I am going to hang up - but send me your repeat song right now and I will send you mine.”

“Alright sounds good, bye.”

Sliding my phone back into the cozy enclave of my sweat pocket, I deftly tear open a small blue packet from its upper right-hand corner. White powder cascades into my purple 16-water bottle. As the powdery clouds settle, I steal a glance across the island to find Jen, sitting up straight with the pink blanket elegantly folded at the end of the beige couch. A wide devilish grin is plastered across her face like a secret she can't wait to share.

The first sip of my liquid IV electrifies my tongue, a tingling sensation that jolts every muscle and nerve. The cold remedy travels from my throat down to my stomach, awakening me from the hazy clutches of my hangover. "Yes, Jen?" I inquire, stirring my drink with a contemplative air, eager for whatever mischief has ignited that grin.

“Was that who I thought it was?” Jen's arms extend gracefully above her head, a stretch that resembles an upward salute pose.

“Since I called him last night I guess he returned the favor this afternoon,” I say as I roll my eyes, a reflexive response to her antics, but I can't help mirroring her grin.

I continue. “I didn’t think he’d actually do that but it was good hearing his voice.” My words carry a hint of surprise.

On my way to the bathroom, a vibration hits my watch and I glance at a small Spotify message from him which leads to a musical exchange, amplifying the sounds of "Helplessly Hoping" filling my bathroom. The melody intertwined with my thoughts, leaving me to ponder that strange and memorable phone call.