Page 41 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

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. . .

Three weeks later

T hree weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard her voice echo down the hallway, since her stupid fuzzy slippers slapped against the hardwood, or her laugh floated from the kitchen while she burned her eggs.

Three weeks since she moved out.

I wasn’t even home when she left.

Out of town for a game. One night, one hotel, one too-long bus ride back, and when I walked into the house, her room was empty.

Gone.

No warning. No note.

How fucked up is that?

I thought we were friends.

Scratch that—I thought we were more.

I thought every time she looked at me like I was hers, it meant something. She stole my hoodies. Left her shampoo in my shower because she liked my shower better. And had wanted to paint her walls beige.

Now her room is empty.

Nugget keeps whining at the front door. And every time I walk past the kitchen, I expect to hear her singing badly or yelling at the blender like it personally wronged her.

But it’s quiet.

And I’ve never hated silence so much in my life.

She is . Everywhere.

Her nail polish still stains the armrest of the couch from the night we drank too much and she painted her toes while we watched a horror movie. The freezer still has her weird oat milk popsicles. Nugget’s new favorite toy is the one she brought home the day before she moved out.

I flop onto my bed and instead of jerking off like I want to—because it’s been three weeks since we last had sex, I do what I should have done months ago: open the dating app with intention.

Time to get back in the saddle, for real this time.

I prop my phone on my chest and start swiping like a man trying to prove a point to absolutely no one.

“No.”

“Nope.”

Too filtered.

Esh—not filtered enough...

Girl holding a fish—cute. Very cute.

Another swipe.

Another.

Another.

And then?—

I freeze.

There she is.

Online.

A little green dot glowing next to her name like a slap to the face. Active now. Swiping. Still looking.

I tap on her profile like an idiot, even though I’ve already seen it. Memorized it. Matched with it. That stupid bio I used to think was clever. That smile I’ve kissed. That face I used to wake up thinking about.

My stomach knots.

She had me. She. Fucking. Had. Me.

Why does she feel the need to… to… keep looking. What was I, just a pit stop? A placeholder? A mistake she’s now actively trying to swipe out of her memory?

My throat tightens. I scroll through her photos even though it makes me feel like shit. Her in that sundress. Her at the beach. Her laughing at something off-camera.

I’ve wondered how her new apartment is for three weeks, not giving myself the permission to reach out, not wanting to come off as thirsty or desperate.

A harmless inquiry wouldn’t kill either of us, eh? And if she ignores me, then I know…

I shouldn’t care that she’s swiping on the apps. That she’s possibly meeting someone else. Possibly laughing at someone else’s stupid jokes. Possibly curled up in someone else’s sweatshirt that doesn’t fit her nearly as well as mine did.

I slam my eyes shut. Because now I’m imagining that guy. The one she’s swiping right on.

I sit up too fast and Nugget jolts from his spot at the foot of the bed, staring at me like I’m unstable. Which, fair.

This is pathetic.

I’m not this guy. I don’t pine.

I grab my phone again. Open her profile.

And this time, I don’t just stare.

I type.