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I fall back onto my pillows, phone above my face like a guillotine. Blue light washes everything in that otherworldlyglow—just like those candles in the restaurant, reflecting tired hope right back at me. The last message I sent him wishing him good luck sits there, mocking me:
Such a normal text. Such an easy thing to ignore. Such a tiny message to carry so much weight.
My fingers hover over the keyboard again, indecision making my chest ache. The rain gets louder, my thoughts matching its rhythm. I flip my phone over, heart pounding in that weird, too-big way.
I check his location—I hate that I do this, but I do. Still in California. In some hotel room. Doing who knows what, with a broken nose and my broken trust. What if he’s texting Brynn right now? What if she’s the one he wants?
I hate my fucking brain.
Game highlights play on my laptop. Masochist move, but I watch it again. There’s a clip of the play, and my stomach drops every time. The camera pans away fast, but not before I see blood on his white jersey, his body crumpling like a poem someone gave up on.
Finally, I type:
Heard about your nose
Hope you’re okay
Send, before I can chicken out. Regret floods me immediately. The message is delivered. Those three dots pop up and disappear, twice—each time, a heartbeat of hope.
Thanks
One word. Five letters. A whole universe of dismissal.
I stare until the letters blur, until they mean nothing, until they’re just proof of all we’re not—like those container cranes blinking red into the dark.
My fingers move without thinking:
Bro, that’s it?
You can text Brynn back but can’t even reply to my good luck text
Send.
Oh God. Immediate regret. I should throw my phone out the window. Or transfer. Or move to Antarctica. I should?—
Sorry forgot and then yeah that happened
I didn’t text Brynn though
Wait. What? She lied to me? My lungs empty like I’ve been punched. Tears burn. I flip my phone screen-down, as if hiding it erases the whole conversation.
Worst part? I know I’ll check my phone again in ten minutes. Hell, probably five. Hope rising like those ferry waves, no matter how much I hate myself for it.
Brynn was right at brunch, her words echoing now: a situationship is only a situation to one person. To the other, it’s nothing.
But wait—he didn’t text Brynn? She said he did. The confusion crashes over me, washing away my self-pity and replacing it with something sharper. I remember her angling her phone away, all those messages, her giggling.
I grab my phone:
Why’d you say Jaxon texted you
He said he didn’t
I wait, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear the rain. Butter and garlic from dinner sit bitter in my stomach.
Bubbles. Stop. Start. Stop.
Brynn