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Sitting on the floor between our beds, I think about my phone under Callie’s pillow. She kept it so I wouldn’t text Jaxon. I want it back.
Moving slowly, like I’m stealing second—partly sneaky, mostly because sudden moves might make me puke—I inch across the floor in just my bra and underwear. My clothes are casualties somewhere near the bathroom.
“Mmmph... no... blue shell...” Callie mumbles in her sleep.
I freeze. Did she wake up? Nope. Still out.
I snag my phone from under her pillow. The floor is cold but feels good on my food-poisoned skin, even if I’m collecting enough dust bunnies to knit a sweater. Mission accomplished.
“Don’t touch the... banana…” she mutters.
I stifle a laugh. Mario Kart dreams.
I touch the screen—another text from Jaxon at two a.m.
im rlly sorry i didn’t text ya for a few days
See? He cares. He didn’t mean to ignore me. Stockholm syndrome at its finest.
If someone did a psych eval, they’d probably say, “You’ve developed an emotional attachment to the person who keeps striking you out.” I’d say, “Yeah, but have you seen his curveball?”
At least hostages get three meals a day. I’m out here living on breadcrumbs and thinking it’s a feast.
If my heart were a catcher’s mitt, Jaxon would be that wild pitch that somehow lands dead center. Except the pitch is emotional manipulation, and I’m the mitt, catching it every time.
God, I need therapy.
And some Pepto-Bismol.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to reply. I haven’t talked to him in days and it’s killing me. Callie would murder me. She’d give me that look—like I deserve more than late-night texts and stolen moments.
Through the wall, someone’s microwaving fish—because apparently that’s what people do at 3 AM in college. My stomach rolls at the smell. The blue light from Callie’s diffuser makes weird shadows on the ceiling, and my body is staging a rebellion against my dinner choices.
“No... not the red shell…” Callie whimpers.
Doesn’t matter, because Jaxon’s texts still make my heart skip like a perfect bunt down the third base line.
I type back:
i miss you too
And then I lie on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by dust bunnies and questionable choices, staring at the ceiling and hating myself a little for being so easy. For letting him pull me back in with three words. For still wanting him, even when my mouth tastes like death and my stomach is auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.
“NOOOOO!” Callie suddenly shouts, bolting upright. “THE BLUE SHELL!”
I freeze, phone clutched to my chest, praying she’s still asleep.
She flops back down. “Stupid Mario…”
Some nights, you know you’re making the wrong play. You make it anyway.
Even if you might throw up first.
And even if your roommate might murder you in your sleep for texting your ex.
CHAPTER 19
PLATOON