Free Someone Else by Rebecca Phillips

large amounts of alcohol.
    On weekends I usually called Michael’s room at around seven, before he headed out for the evening. Often, during our calls, he’d have a room full of friends, a boisterous group of guys who laughed a lot and rarely gave him a moment’s peace. I knew them all by name now. Sometimes they even answered his phone when I called, teasing me, calling me “the little woman” or “the wife” or refusing to put Michael on the phone. But I could deal with that.
    What I couldn’t deal with was calling my boyfriend and hearing a strange female voice on the other end of the phone.
    When this girl answered, saying “Michael’s room” in a cute, perky voice like she was his damn secretary, all I could do was croak out a few words, hoping they sounded something like, “Is Michael there?”
    Next I expected her to say no and then ask to take a message, like a good little receptionist, but instead she said “Yep, just a sec” and a second later, Michael was on the phone.
    “Hey.” He sounded just as cheerful as his message service girl.
    “Hi,” I said, the end of the word lilting up a little, like a question. As in, who the hell is this and why is she answering your phone?
    “Oh, hi. How was your day?”
    I couldn’t answer right away. My mind was too busy processing the tone of his voice. The way he phrased his words, he could have been talking to a distant aunt. “Fine,” I said, finally, and at this point I could hear other voices in his room, male as well as female. This made me feel better, but not much. I cleared my throat. “Who answered your phone?”
    “Lauren. She lives in my dorm.”
    As he said her name—this girl who obviously felt so at home in his room—I had an image of them sitting close together on his bed, her shapely thigh pressed against his. She sounded like the girls who used to hang around Michael and his friends in high school, the ones with bleached-white teeth and tans in the dead of winter. Girls I never felt I could compete with. Michael always claimed he wasn’t attracted to that underfed, overdone type (which was why he liked me, I guess) but I figured almost anyone would start to look good after several weeks without sex.
    “Friend of yours?” I asked. My hand started throbbing and I realized I was squeezing the phone. I eased up on my grip.
    “Yeah, I guess.” As he spoke, tinkling female laughter drifted through the phone. It sounded close. Like right-next-to-him close. “Everything okay?” he asked after several seconds of silence on my end. When I didn’t answer, the laughter and voices grew distant as he moved away from his friends, presumably out into the hallway, where it was quieter and more private. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding louder now that the background noise had faded.
    “Nothing,” I told him. Then I remembered our promise to always be honest with each other. “I guess I don’t like the idea of some girl answering your phone.”
    In the pause that followed, I could hear people yelling back and forth. No wonder he found home so peaceful in comparison. “She’s just a friend,” he said in a hushed voice, as if he didn’t want anyone to overhear this predictable statement, one that has been said by guys to girls—and vice versa—since the beginning of time.
    “Okay,” I said, none too convincingly.
    “What, am I not allowed to have friends here?”
    I focused on the digital clock on my night stand, trying to keep the red numbers from blurring. “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just…”
    “I’ve always had female friends. Why is it such a big problem for you all of a sudden?”
    “Just forget it, okay?”
    “What is with you lately? It’s like you don’t trust me anymore or something.”
    “It’s not that,” I said, kneading my forehead with my fingers. What the hell was I trying to do with all this insecure-possessive-freak crap? Push him into Lauren’s arms myself? “Forget I said anything.