Deborah contacts you

You sat there for a good few minutes, trying to take in the reality that was staring you right in the face. "No way...this can't be happening..."

There was no way that Deborah Zawatsky was into you in any romantic way, there was just no indication that she was anything but a classmate. Sure, the two of you said hi to each other and worked on projects here and there, but you worked on projects with a quarter of the girls in your class. That didn't make you marriage material. And what was with this talk about marriage and debt of honor stuff? Israel was a modern democracy, it didn't believe in such things...did it?

Furthermore, even if by some odd miracle, you were reading the truth, what did your dad have to say about it? Why didn't she say anything to the parents of Deborah and try to convince them of the truth? NDA aside, a woman in the 21st Century could find her own way, right? Did it make sense to bind her to you?

None of this made any sense and the headache that was always present, a side effect of the crash that slammed your head into the dashboard, caused you to lean your head back and you counted the specks on your ceiling slowly, trying desperately to get your heart under control and your head from spinning. You kept being drawn, though, to the inevitable conclusion: Your dad had gone mad. That was it. Unknown hormones, new situation, familial pressure, all of that had combined to drive him insane. You were almost sure, now, that Saunders or Kelly had screwed up somewhere and that they should fix this before it got any worse.

You reached to pick up your phone, to give the doctors a piece of your mind (haha...stop it!) and get them to admit their fuckup and getting this resolved. It was going to be glorious, a situation that would have made your grandfather proud of you.

Except, of course, for the message from Instagram. A DM, more in particular, from Deborah.

HEY...

You just hovered there for a moment before you tapped in a response. Hey...

I GOT A NOTICE THAT YOU ACCEPTED MY REQUEST. I WASN'T SURE HOW YOU WERE DOING...

Still sore as shit, feels like I got hit by a car. Oh, which I did, makes sense now... You winced at the bad attempt at humor, especially considering what was going on between the two of you.

There was a momentary pause. You were about to send something else when she replied. LISTEN, ABOUT MY BLOGS...

Is there a way we can talk? I mean, I can't move or anything but...

Your head turned as you looked at the front door as the sound of keys opening the lock reverberated in the otherwise quiet din. Standing there, with a bag slung over her shoulder, was your dad.