Nathan and I live a good twenty-five minutes from each other. It's not terribly far, but it's also not a quick jaunt home, either, especially at night. So we always part with the following:
“Text me when you get home, babe.”
“I will…I always do…”
Here’s the thing…I know I’m neurotic. I’m very aware of it. But if you tell me you’re going to text me when you get home—and past precedence indicates your thoughtfulness in doing so—and you don’t, then I’m going to think the worst. Drowned in a lake, kidnapped by pirates, abducted by aliens. The possibilities are endless.
Seriously though, regardless of how fertile one’s imagination is…if you don’t get that text at the end of the night, isn’t it safe to assume something’s not right?
Well, turns out, what wasn’t right was that Nathan just left his cell in his car that night and didn’t hear me text him twice and call him at 12….12:30…1...2.
In fact, he didn’t get back to me until he found his cell in his car the next day, at 1pm. I was relieved he was alive, but I also wanted to kill him a little bit. I seriously thought he was dead for twelve hours.
But it’s cool, guys. He’s fine.
And he’ll never forget to text me again...