Page 45 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

One week after that…

T he date wasn’t supposed to end that way.

It wasn’t supposed to end with him pounding into me, both of us coming in an elevator car, twenty something floors above the city, and now I’m more confused than ever.

My thighs have stopped aching. My heart? Not so much.

I stare at my phone, lying face-up on my duvet at the notification box that’s popped up on my screen and the tiny green dot glows next to Turner’s name. We never deleted one another on the dating app or unmatched because why would we?

That would imply closure.

Or boundaries.

Or any level of maturity.

Instead, we’ve kept talking. Not every second of every day.

But enough that I would feel empty if we weren’t.

And despite the fact that I moved out of our shared house— moved out , like a grown-up trying to grow up—I still can’t stop checking my phone like a junkie for a fix.

Still can’t stop thinking about that elevator.

He hasn't asked me out again. But he hasn’t stopped flirting either. Which means one of two things:

He’s waiting for me to make a move.

He wants to move on from me.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling of my stupid, dumb boring apartment bedroom.

What is this? WHAT ARE WE DOING?

We’re not dating. We’re not just roommates anymore either. We’ve crossed a line so thoroughly and so spectacularly that I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips when I shower.

And the worst part?

I want to do it again.

I want him.

But I also want clarity. And a goddamn plan . And maybe a brain transplant because who the hell sleeps with their ex-roommate in an elevator and then just goes back to sending dumb gifs like nothing happened?

Oh right. Me.

I sigh. Thumb hovering over the keyboard.

And then?—

My stomach turns like I’m on an amusement park tilt-a-whirl hard.

I bolt upright, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth as the room sways, and for a second, I honestly think I’m about to pass out. Dizzy. So dizzy…

I scramble off the bed and make a beeline for the bathroom, barely making it in time before I’m heaving over the toilet.

Okay. Cool. Great.

I’m just... sick. A stomach bug. Something bad I ate. Maybe the emotional whiplash of pretending I’m chill about Turner for seven whole days finally broke me.

Or—maybe—I’m dying.

That’s totally plausible, too.

I sit down on the floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled up. My heart’s still racing, and my mouth tastes like regret. My phone buzzes from the bedroom where I left it, but I can’t make myself move.

Not yet.

“Ugh! You do not have time to be sick,” I complain, reaching up for a washcloth and pressing it against my forehead.

I sit there for another few minutes, panting like I just ran a marathon in flip-flops, the cold cloth dripping down my temple and making me shiver. My body feels like warm trash.

Total garbage.

After what feels like an eternity, I manage to drag myself up. My legs are noodles. My insides? Betraying me. I clutch the sink, splash water on my face, and glare at my reflection like this is somehow her fault.

"You dramatic little bitch," I mutter.

I shuffle out of the bathroom, flop face-first into my bed, and groan into the comforter. The phone buzzes again somewhere near my elbow.

I groan again.

Should probably tell Nova I’m dying—she would want to know. Or text my parents or something, just in case.

With an epic groan, I blindly slap around for my cell and drag it under the covers like I’m trying to smuggle state secrets. My eyes barely open, fingers fumbling as I scroll through contacts and tap on Nova’s name.

Me: Update: I’m dying. This is the end. Feel like total shit, just threw up.

Three seconds later:

Nova: YOU POOR THING!!! I’ve heard the flu is going around but what kind of dying are we talking about here? Food poisoning? Covid?

Me: ALL THE ABOVE. I can barely type this but also, don’t even think of stopping by unless you’re bringing soup and saltine crackers.

Nova: Bold of you to make demands on me from your deathbed.

Me: I’m not above HAUNTING you if you bring off-brand.

Nova: There’s no way you’re that sick if you’re threatening me.

Me: I am!

Nova: Then I’ll have some things delivered for you—are you okay enough to get the door when it’s dropped off?

Me: Probably?

Nova: Okay then I’ll order you some shit. Mama Nova will take care of you—from a safe distance, ha ha.

Me: You’re a national treasure. Please get me the boring kind of soup, not the fancy stuff with quinoa

Nova: Got it. Chicken noodle, saltines, maybe some sad little pudding cups.

Me: Only the beige food group. Beige like me, I need a spray tan.

Nova: You are so bossy, but ok.

I roll over with a groan, hugging my phone to my chest, eyes burning with a combination of dehydration and raw emotion, frustrated at being sick, wanting to shower but not having the strength.

Thirty minutes later the knock at the door has me slowly easing out of my cocoon and shuffling toward the door.

Bland snacks in all their glory.

“My god why is this so heavy?” I complain, hoisting the bag onto my kitchen counter, wobbling limbs barely able to lift what weighs like fifty pounds.

Inside the bag is what every person with the flu needs to survive: chicken soup. Saltines. Apple juice. Gatorade. Chocolate pudding cups. One pack of toasted cheese crackers I didn’t ask for but am now grateful for. A bag of gummy bears.

“Thank you, Nova.” She is a queen.

Nova: Are you alive??? The groceries are showing delivered.

Me: Alive and chugging Gatorade.

She is a godsend.