Page 8 of Desperate Games

Just a night.

Just a distraction.

But the lie tastes sour now.

Because my body might have come down from the high, but my heart hasn’t.

And my stupid, traitorous brain?

It’s still whispering questions I don’t have the guts to say out loud.

Does he think about me?

Was it more for him, too?

Why hasn’t he called?

I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, and groan.

Of course, he hasn’t called.

That night probably meant nothing to him.

Just a fling. Just a wedding hookup with a willing girl who made him laugh.

But to me?

It was hope. It was maybe.

It was please, God, let this be something.

And now, two weeks later, I’m still waking up with his name on my lips and nothing but silence on my phone.

I press my hand to my stomach, curious.

I get up and move to the bathroom I share with the next bedroom.

Locking both doors, because you never know in this house, I get myself ready.

I try to ignore the guilt clawing at my chest as I tear the little pink box open like it insulted me and my whole damn family tree.

It’s stupid, right? Feeling guilty for hoping.

For wanting.

The directions are basic.

Pee on the stick, cap it, lay it flat, wait three minutes.

Easy.

Except I kinda miss and pee on my hand a little.

Not the glamorous moment I was hoping for. But I’m too anxious to care.

I cap the stick, toss it on the counter, and practically dive for the sink.

Scrubbing like Lady Macbeth while trying not to gag.