Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Once I’m finished with my usual rounds of the Internet, I remember Robert adding me on Facebook last night. I’ve never been on his page before, and my curiosity gets the better of me. Normally I see him make the odd comment on Sasha’s wall, but that’s about it.
When I log in, his friend request pops right up, and I don’t know what to do about it. I want to accept it so I can snoop on his page, but then that’ll have to go both ways and he’ll be able to snoop on mine. My life is nothing exciting. I mostly only talk to Sasha and my few friends from college. Feeling insecure that Robert will discover how dull my life is if I hit “accept,” I decide to play it safe and click on “decline.” I know I shouldn’t care about what he thinks of me, but I do. I can’t help it — I always have.
A couple of minutes go by as I comment on a few of my friends’ statuses. Then I hear a door opening at the end of the hall and hard footsteps on the wooden floor, becoming louder as they get closer to my room. My door flies open, and Robert steps inside.
I glance up from my laptop screen to take him in. His stylish haircut is dishevelled, but he’s dressed nicely in a shirt and expensive jeans. He drops down on the bed in front of me, scratching his hand across his day-old stubble.
“You declined my request,” he states, vaguely annoyed.
I pull out my earphones and laugh, then ask, “What were you doing, waiting eagerly online for me to accept it or something?”
He rolls his eyes and smirks. “No, I was online just now when I saw your cruel rejection.” He stops and puts his hand dramatically to his heart. “How could you, Lana?”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You’ll get over it.”
He reaches forward and tugs on the toe of my sock. “I’m going back to my room to add you again. This time don’t be a bitch and just accept it, will you?”
I give him a considering look, then take great pleasure in replying, “Eh, let me see, that would be a no.”
He grins. “Oh, my, are you enjoying this, little Lana?”
I keep my face expressionless when I glance up at him and continuing typing. “Maybe.”
He grabs my iPod, tearing it from the earphones, and begins scrolling through my music. He makes a face of disgust when he starts calling out the artists’ names: “Ani DiFranco, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, Regina Spektor, Tori Amos. Good God, Lana, is there a single male to be found in this monstrosity of a music collection?”
“Uh, yeah. Keep looking. But I do like a lot of female artists,” I tell him.
“Well, that much is clear. I bet you have a dream to one day go to the Lilith Fair and everything,” he says, all matter-of-fact. It’s actually scary how well he can read me, especially after all our years apart, because yes, I would like to go to the Lilith Fair someday. “Ah, here we are, you’ve got an album of The Frames, which, quite frankly, is just as bad as all the women.”
“The Frames are amazing. Do you know Sasha and I once met Glen Hansard when he was busking on Grafton Street? He was really lovely.”
Robert scoffs at this. “The man looks like he needs a good bath and a haircut. Oh, and a hairbrush.”
“Not everyone cares as much about their appearance as you do. But anyway, if I were to look at your music, what gems would I find?”
He holds up his hand, bending down a finger each time he lists off a name. “Mumford & Sons, Kings of Leon, Kasabian…”
“Ugh, I’ll stop you right there. I get it. You like over-hyped indie. Since this is the case, I won’t take your comments on my tastes to heart.”
He gives me a look of mock outrage. “‘Over-hyped indie’? I think not. Although it’s definitely better than quirky female sexism.”
“I am not sexist.”
“You are. You’re a music sexist. That’s the worst kind.” He looks at me in a pleased way that tells me he’s enjoying the argument.
“Okay, fine. I’m a music sexist. You can go now.” I reach over and grab my iPod out of his hand.
He stares at me with fire in his eyes. “Are you going to accept my friendship?”
Man, he really doesn’t give up. “We’ll see.”
Hopping from the bed, he rubs his palms together. “That’s a yes.”
“‘We’ll see’ is not a yes, Rob,” I call after him.
“Yes, it is,” he calls back, walking down the hall to his room. Confident bastard.
Not two minutes later a brand-new friend request pops up. I wonder if there’s only a certain number of times you can add someone before the site blocks you from trying again. Perhaps I should just block him myself right now. However, if I do that it’ll be like he’s won. He knows the idea of him looking through my page freaks me out, and that’s why he’s pushing so hard for this. Well, maybe I should show him that I’m not bothered by it. Does that mean I’ll have won? Jesus, look at me, I’m playing along with his mind games all over again, even though I said I wouldn’t. He just has this way of luring me in.
I need to not care about him, about whatever little judge-y thoughts he might have while looking through my photos, so I squeeze my eyes shut and hit “accept,” praying that I’m making the right decision. Immediately a chat window pops up.
Robert Phillips: Hey, sexy. What are you wearing?
Lana S: Very funny. You just saw me.
Robert Phillips: Fair enough. What colour underwear do you have on?
Lana S: Goodbye, Rob.
Robert Phillips: Spoilsport!
I log off before he has the chance to write me anything else and go into Sasha’s room. I find her lying in bed in a vest top and pyjama pants with her mobile phone held to her ear. She mouths the name “Liz” at me, and I nod. Sasha and her mum try to talk as often as they can. As far as I know, Liz tries the same thing with Robert, but he makes it as difficult for her as he possibly can.