Text Wars: May the Text be With You ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 3)

by Whitney Dineen

  When I get back, I go straight to the living room, only to find it empty. “Serafina?” I call, walking over to the kitchen. “Where’d you go?”

  No answer.

  After a quick check around the apartment, I realize her purse is gone and so is she. I call her number and wait, tapping my foot on the hardwood floor while it rings and goes to voicemail. I hang up and text her.

  ObiWan: Hey, where are you? I hope you didn’t go out to pick up supper for us. I really wanted to treat you tonight.

  I stare at my phone like a I’m waiting for water to boil, but there are no bubbles coming and I have no clue as to why. That’s when I see some kind of odd orange stuff all over my coffee table. Gross, what is that and how did it get there?

  It smells like some sort of cheese product. I wipe it up while I wait. Then I text Serafina again.

  ObiWan: Are you at a takeout place? If so, I could meet you there so we can walk back together. Mr. Spock took his medicine and he seems okay for now.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later …

  ObiWan: Are you okay? Did an emergency come up? Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d leave without saying anything. Text me back, so I know you’re all right.

  Two hours and three unanswered calls later …

  ObiWan: I hope you’re all right. Please get a hold of me as soon as you can, even if it’s the middle of the night. I’m really worried about you and I’m about to call the police.

  The next day…

  Turns out the police don’t go on red alert when your girlfriend walks out before supper. Once they got done laughing over poor Mr. Spock’s stomach ailment, Officer James said, “Maybe your girlfriend doesn’t like cats.” As if.

  ObiWan: I see that you’ve posted on your app about today’s moon position and the weather, so I’m guessing you’re fine but aren’t talking to me for some inexplicable reason. Please call me so we can talk about whatever the hell happened. We still have to see each other every Monday.

  I set my phone on the coffee table and start scrolling through Netflix for something to distract myself. It’s a rainy Thursday and I’m sticking around in case Mr. Spock has another flare up today. My phone rings and I grab for it, but instead of Serafina, it’s my mom calling. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie! How’s it going with Serafina?”

  I made the mistake of telling her we were seeing each other and now I really wish I hadn’t. “Umm … I’m not sure that’s going to work out, to be honest.”

  “Is it because she can’t get past how closed-minded you are?” she asks.

  “No, actually, but what an impressive leap for you to reach that conclusion,” I say, sounding snarkier than I intend.

  “Are you all right? Did she dump you already?”

  “Already?” I ask, irritation rising in my chest.

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean already already, like I assumed she would be the one to dump you. I just meant … is it already over as in…” She rambles and scrambles to repair things, but let’s face it, she meant already. “Relationships rarely work out for me, not that I’ve been in that many.”

  When I don’t answer, my mom continues, this time with some trepidation in her voice. “So you’ve been dumped?”

  I let out a sigh and mutter, “Looks like it.”

  “Oh, my sweet boy. Come home for a visit. I’ll make you sloppy joes like I used to when you had a hard day at school and I’ll even let you have as many potato chips as you want.”

  I kind of do want sloppy joes now that she mentions it. Unfortunately I have a job. “I can’t, Mom, work is so busy right now. But I promise, I’m still coming home for Thanksgiving. Can you make me some sloppy joes then?”

  “Of course. I hate being so far away from you,” she says with a deep sigh. “Listen, you forget all about that woman. And I’m going to tell Lita and Lynda to get off her silly Live for Your Star Sign app.”

  “They’re on her app?”

  “We all are. It’s really great, but we could never support someone who wasn’t nice to you. Even though Lita has already used it to redecorate her living room and she says it feels like an extension of her soul.” She adds, “But, for you, we’ll boycott it and even leave her bad reviews. She’s clearly got something wrong with her if she can’t see what a catch you are.”

  “Clearly,” I tell her, wishing I knew what was going on. Needing to change the subject to something that doesn’t feel like shards of glass to my heart, I ask, “How’s your garden doing these days?”

  “My garden is of no consequence, dear. You are all that matters.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, wondering what I can say to make this conversation end. If I know my mom, and I do, she’s not going to rest until she pries every ugly detail out of me. The problem is, I have no idea what happened because Serafina won’t return my texts.

  Thirty-Five

  Serafina

  Ben sends me forty-seven texts before telling me that he’s not going to contact me again. The ball is in your court, he said in the last text. Whatever. Who in the world would have ever expected a nerdy astrophysicist from NASA to be a cheater? Are there no professions safe from philandering pigs?

  Charley was really mad when I told her Ben was seeing someone else. So much so that she asked if she could use my credit card to send him a glitter bomb. I was so down with that idea, I had her send the biggest one the website offered. Apparently, they put a spring mechanism in a box with a shallow cup full of glitter setting on it. When the box is opened, the cup flings out and sprays glitter everywhere. Can you imagine, the herpes of the craft world shooting all over the apartment of your worst enemy? Such a brilliant concept.

  Although glitter isn’t even enough to take away the pain of discovering that Ben is a cheating cad. Normally, I’d just chalk the disappointment up to life experience, but that’s not going to work in this situation. I really liked Ben. Really. A lot. Also, I have to see him every week at Wake Up America!, so I won’t just be able to walk away and forget he’s alive. Then a terrible thought hits me. Our kiss is probably going to air on Monday when we’re on TV again. Under no circumstances can I allow that to happen.

  I pick up my phone and fire off a text to Waltraut.

  LibraGrl: Hey, listen, um … well, it’s like this. Things are not going well between me and Ben and I would really appreciate it if you didn’t air our kiss.

  * * *

  Waltraut: What happened? I thought you guys had such a great time in Florida.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: We did, but things turned south after we got back to New York. I know how excited you were about the kiss, but really, you can’t air it, okay?

  * * *

  Waltraut: It’s already gone to the producers, so I’ll have to talk to them. I’m not sure they’ll pull it though. They were really excited when they saw it.

  Damn. Damn. Damndamndamndamndamn.

  LibraGrl: See what you can do, okay?

  * * *

  Waltraut: Of course. It’ll be fun to have you back on Monday. We got a ton of emails and calls from disappointed fans when you weren’t on this week.

  I do my best to focus on work for the next few days, but I do a miserable job of it. It’s like I just don’t care anymore.

  On Saturday, I fixate on how Ben is going to an engagement party with Gwen this weekend. Are they spending the night? Are they going to get engaged themselves like it sounded like Gwen is expecting? By the late afternoon, I’m so upset I’m ready to rip my hair out or start breaking dishes. I settle for trying to invent the perfect break-up cocktail.

  I start with a vodka base, a vodka middle, and a vodka topper. Then I shake it all together. In an attempt at feeling less like a boozy alcoholic, I add a dash of orange juice and turn it into a Screwdriver. Although, I decide to change its name and call it a Screwed-Over-Driver. I drink three of them before the first starts to kick in.

  As I’m a total lightweight in the alcohol d
epartment, I don’t have a lot of experience with being sloppy drunk. Turns out I don’t like to be drunk alone so I start texting people.

  I start with my brother Zay.

  LibraGrl: Hey Zay! Ha, get it? HeyZay rhymes! So does, say, Zay wanna play? Hurray!

  * * *

  Zay: Sera, are you okay?

  * * *

  LibraGrl: Totes and way!

  * * *

  Zay: What going on?

  * * *

  LibraGrl: I’m in the fray of today mon cher-ray!

  * * *

  Zay: Seriously, I’m going to call the paramedics if you don’t say something that makes sense.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: …

  * * *

  LibraGrl: …

  * * *

  LibraGrl: Men are pigs, eh?

  * * *

  Zay: Uh-oh. Did something happen with Ben?

  * * *

  LibraGrl: Dunno. Would you think he’s a cheater if he’s about to marry someone else after sexing me up?

  * * *

  Zay: Ew.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: He’s the north end of a southbound donkey all right.

  * * *

  Zay: Agreed. But never use the words “sex me up” in reference to yourself. Better yet, never use those words.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: He done me wrong. That low down, good-for-nothing son of a female dog in heat. I hate him. I super double-dog hate him. And I hate his cat, too!

  * * *

  Zay: Should I come over? You’re making me nervous.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: I’m not going to stick my head in the microwave if that’s what’s worrying you.

  * * *

  Zay: I wasn’t until you said that. I’m on my way. Stop texting people, okay? There are some things you can never recover from and drunk texting is one of them.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: K. Off to text Ben. Gonna give that snake in the grass a piece of my mind!

  * * *

  Zay: Sera, don’t …

  * * *

  LibraGrl: BYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

  I feel great. Great like I’m eight out of state carrying freight by the weight. It’s rhyme time, friends of mine. I wander around my apartment when a sudden urge to eat chocolate hits me. I tear through my kitchen cabinets like finding it holds the key to world peace, but the only thing I come up with is unsweetened cocoa.

  What kind of Libra doesn’t have a solid chocolate stash? A bad Libra, that’s who. Although, I’ve eaten a ton of chocolate during my mourning period this week which makes me a good Libra again.

  I plant myself on a bar stool at the kitchen counter and pour some sugar from the sugar bowl right into the cocoa. Then I stir it before putting a big spoonful into my mouth. It’s dry, very dry, but once I mix it with enough spit it gets better.

  I pick up my phone and text Ben.

  LibraGrl: You suck eggs, Banana Pants!

  When he doesn’t respond, I remember he’s at an engagement party.

  LibraGrl: Screw you, you phoney baloney. I hope your boss sends you to Mars and leaves you there.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: I hope you go on Survivor and they don’t give you any rice and you have to eat rats.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: I hope when you fall asleep tonight someone sneaks into your apartment and gives you a perm.

  * * *

  LibraGrl: I hope your toenails fall off…

  I’m really warming up here, but I’m also starting to get seriously nauseated. Oh God, vodka, orange juice, and cocoa are not the best combination on an empty stomach. I stagger to the kitchen and open a bag of bread. After pulling out a handful, I shove it into my mouth. I need something to sop up the booze, but I think I’m too late.

  On my wild sprint to the bathroom, I trip over an area rug and fall flat on my face. The pressure of hitting the floor is all it takes to trigger the release of my stomach’s contents. I don’t have the strength to pull myself up, yet alone clean up the mess. In fact, I don’t have the strength to do more than lie there and cry.

  Luckily, unconsciousness claims me like the Grim Reaper trying to hit his monthly quota. As I pass out, my last thought is that I hope Ben breaks up with Gwen and comes crawling back to me. Damn it, I think I went and fell in love with the guy.

  Thirty-Six

  Ben

  “… as much as I hate to admit it, your rocket scientist here is so much more handsome than Dr. Kwak,” Gwen’s aunt says, grinning back and forth between us.

  We’re sitting at a table together, having endured the speeches, and a lengthy dinner interrupted by a tinkling of champagne flutes every thirty seconds for the newly engaged couple to kiss. I thought that was just a wedding tradition, but this family apparently uses it for the engagement too. It’s seriously over the top.

  Having been inexplicably dumped exactly thirty-eight hours ago, I’m a little irritated by the sight of happy people right now. I have a long sip of my white wine while Gwen’s aunt drones on about how adorable we are together.

  “You’re going to have the cutest babies!”

  No. No, we’re not.

  “Well, Auntie June, it’s a little early for that kind of talk,” Gwen says with an uncomfortable smile.

  June shakes her head vigorously, causing the fake flower clipped into her far-too-dark-for-her-age hair to flop back and forth. “I can tell. You two have a connection, everyone’s talking about it.”

  She’s the seventh person to say something similar. What is it with this family? They really want to marry Gwen off. Is it so they can see more PDA-on-demand? Not happening, weirdos.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out as discreetly as I can to check it, my heart pounding. June’s now picking out our best features for our babies, as though it’s possible to put in an order or something. Her eye color, but his eye shape, his chin, her nose … I hate people.

  Rapid-fire texts are coming in from Serafina,. My first thought is I’m so relieved she’s okay, and then I see what she wrote. Phoney baloney? She hopes someone gives me a perm? What in the hell is she talking about?

  “How come you two aren’t out on the dance floor?” Aunt June asks.

  “Good question. Let’s go,” I say, standing quickly and pulling Gwen with me.

  The band is playing “The Chicken Dance” (of course), which is my least favorite of all barnyard dances, but in the name of getting away from June, I’m willing to humiliate myself. Gwen and I stand next to each other and flap our arms like birds.

  “Great escape plan,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I yell over the music. “I thought she’d never stop talking.”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t have,” Gwen yells back as we clap our hands four times fast with the rest of the other chickens. After we spin around, Gwen says, “Are you all right? You seem a little quiet today.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. There’s no way I’m going to talk about what happened with her. Even though we’ve agreed to just be friends, it feels wrong. “I’m just not that great with crowds.”

  “Are you sure? Because as I might have mentioned before, when I was watching some of your TV appearances, you and that Serafina woman seem to have a real chemistry between you.” We wiggle our way down to a low crouch, then back up. “Did something happen between you two on your trip?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” I fell in love with her.

  “Why unfortunately?”

  “She’s … not exactly a stable Mable.” As soon as I say it, I feel a smack of guilt for being so unkind. But, it’s true, so…

  “That’s too bad,” Gwen says with a look of understanding.

  Flapping my arms some more, I reply, “Better to find out early though.”

  “Good point.”

  I should change the subject. Forget all about her. Maybe get drunk and do something I might regret. I glance at Gwen, then realize I’d have to be a completely horrible
person to do that. Also, Gwen doesn’t like me that way either.

  I blurt out, “Everything was going so well, or so I thought, then she just left without an explanation.”

  And suddenly, I find myself telling poor Gwen everything…

  I’m angry before my alarm goes off at four a.m. I’ve been in the worst mood of my entire life since Wednesday night. I talked poor Gwen’s ear off on Saturday night about Ms. Takes-Off-On-You-Then-Wishes-You’d-Eat Rats-for-NO-Good-Reason. I’ve also taken to grumbling about Libras (of all the inane things to even think about, let alone talk about) and muttering curse words when I’m alone at my apartment, my office, and once at the grocery store. Mr. Spock must be able to tell I’m on edge because he hasn’t attempted to scratch the side of my couch even once since Wednesday, which is kind of nice actually. But this feeling? Decidedly not nice.