Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

I’m in bed, on the phone with Sloane. It’s ten o’clock at
night. I know I won’t sleep again, because I haven’t since he
left. “It’s too late for me to call. It’s one in the morning in New
York.”
“You’re a moron.”
“I don’t want to disturb him. He’s got a lot going on.”
“You’re a huge moron.”
I cry, “Why doesn’t he call me? I told him I loved him, and
he got all weird and never called me again!”
She says flatly, “I know you don’t really believe he hasn’t
contacted you because you told him you love him.”
My exhalation is a huge, depressed gust of air. “No. I
don’t.”
“So what’s the real issue?”
I swallow, staring up at the ceiling, dreading saying it out
loud. “Basically…déjà vu.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Oh. Okay, you need to tell him that,
right away. I’m sure he has no idea because men are clueless,
but you shouldn’t have to relive your past all over again.
That’s cruel. Call him right now and tell him.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I’m hanging up now. Call me back after you talk and
he grovels epically.”
She disconnects, leaving me wrestling with my conscience.
He never said I shouldn’t call him when he was away, but I
don’t want to be that girl. That clingy, insecure, needy girl.
I don’t have much, but I do have my pride.
Except apparently I don’t, because it only takes ten
seconds of internal debate after hanging up with Sloane before
I’m calling him.
It rings. Rings again. On the third ring, I sit bolt upright in
bed, my heart hammering.