“It is Ryan,” George said.
He did not hand me the phone. He laid it face down on his chest, where the green notification light continued to pulse against the soft cotton of his shirt.
“Do you want me to answer it?” he asked.
I sat up, pulling the heavy cotton sheet up to my collarbone.
The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator downstairs.
I looked at the dark silhouette of the oak trees outside our bedroom window.
“No,” I said. “He will call again if it is important.”
“He has already called twice,” George said, his voice low and steady. “The first one came in at ten to six.”
The phone buzzed again, a longer double pulse that meant a text message had landed.
The small vibration against George’s chest made a dry, scratching sound against the fabric.
“He is not going to stop,” George said.
He reached over and rested his hand on my wrist, his thumb tracing the gold band on my finger.
“Let him call,” I said.
