Control

six

I stare at my phone screen in one hand, the other hand tapping a soft rhythm on my thigh. My legs are crossed as I casually sit on top of my bed, the white linen soft against my bare legs as I am still in my pyjamas, the Saturday morning a sufficient excuse.

Can I have your number? It's just easier than Instagram, is the DM that I'm staring at, Levi Ashford once again producing a smile on my face.

We've been texting on Instagram regularly for two days now, since he had insisted on asking if I was okay every two minutes after my episode in his car.

Once I had finished work and opened my phone, his care was overwhelming. And reassuring, since I had hoped he didn't think I was some weirdo, but I knew he wouldn't. I know Levi well enough to realise that he's a good person.

I text a response, laughing at my own words.

If I do, am I encouraging your stalker ways? We should talk about that, it really is a problem.

I can imagine the pull of his lips to reveal his dimples, the way his head tilts in intrigue.

His reply appears moments later.

I think we both know who the stalker is here, Rory. Think about it as an opportunity to finetune your stalkery talents.

I laugh out loud, the sound unfamiliar to my walls, echoing against the confines of my spacious room.

I message him my phone number, contemplating the decision once it's been made.

What does this mean?

It's been a long time since I've even looked twice at a boy. It always seemed so time-consuming to even try, but with Levi, it's so comfortable.

A text message pings on my phone, sending a thrill of dopamine through me.

Now that I've got your number, does that make it acceptable to ask you out on a date?

The text causes me to grin, a fluttery feeling growing in my stomach.

I think I want this.

The sound of the front door being unlocked interrupts my contemplation, my mother's soft footsteps travelling through the house. I hear her place shopping bags in the kitchen and my feet lift me off my bed before my brain can catch up.

My socks trail down the hall from my bedroom to the kitchen, eyes landing on my mother behind the kitchen counter.

"I've got a date," I reveal, causing her to glance up at me.

I don't know why I say it. I want to keep these things to myself, want to cherish them without my mother ruining them. I can't even carry a conversation with her, that painful feeling in my chest being an inevitable outcome.

But I tell her anyway.

I study her eyes as they stare at me, my hair in a messy low bun with a pyjama top and shorts donning my frame that shrinks into itself at her silence.

"Ma chérie," she begins, the unexpected term of endearment compelling my eyebrows to crease and my heart rate to rise in apprehension, "do you really think that's best? That this is the right timing?" she asks, her voice softer than I've ever heard it, her expression almost pitying.

I immediately regret telling her about the date, because this reaction is unprecedented and I don't want to know what she'll say next.

Belatedly, I realise she is speaking English, an occurrence that is not only unlikely, but impossible.

"Yes," I answer, somewhat confidently. "He's really great," I add, feeling the need to explain myself without divulging too much.

My mother's eyes soften even further before she walks over to me slowly, dropping her head slightly so her eyes are in-line with mine, a requirement due to the heels that she is still wearing.