Page 4 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “I keep thinking about what you said. About us being intense instead of broken.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then stops walking. We’re standing in the shadow of the library, students streaming past us toward their next classes.

“Do you want to talk about what happened after I kissed you?” she asks.

My chest tightens. I close my eyes, feeling exposed. “I told you he kissed me. And I… I kissed him back.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Payton showed up, and I left with her. He texted me yesterday, but I haven’t responded.”

Lola studies my face. “Why not?”

The question catches me off guard. Why not? Because Payton would be disappointed. Because Tori would lecture me. Because Emma would give me that look that says I told you so. Because everyone expects me to be strong enough to walk away and leave him in the past.

“Because I’m done with him,” I say finally.

“Really?” she taunts.

“Yes, really. It’s not a good idea. We’re terrible together. All we do is fight. It’s not logical. It would be so dumb of me to go back.”

Lola tilts her head, trying to figure out what to say. “Is that what you want though? Do you want to stay away?”

I don’t answer. What I feel and what I know are two different languages, and I’ve been lost in translation for weeks.

We walk the rest of the way in silence, splitting off when she heads to her chemistry lab and I trudge back to the dorm.

Payton’s at her study group, so I have the room to myself.

I dump my backpack on my bed and stare at my laptop, willing myself to care about the psychology paper that’s due in six hours.

Instead, I open Instagram.

His profile loads immediately. It’s muscle memory, my fingers finding him without conscious thought. His last post is from three days ago. A team photo after practice. I scroll through his stories. Nothing new. Nothing that tells me what he’s thinking or if he’s thinking about me at all.

I check his teammates’ accounts next. Carter posted a video from the gym this morning. Dylan shared something about protein shakes. Normal college guy stuff. No sign of Zeke anywhere.

The silence feels deliberate. Pointed. Like he’s moved on while I’m still stuck replaying Saturday night on an endless loop.

I close the app and open my laptop. The psychology paper stares at me, cursor blinking in the empty document. I type one sentence, then delete it. Type another, then delete that too.

Every word feels like a drag.

My phone sits beside me on the bed, face up, screen dark. Waiting.

I pick it up, scroll to Zeke’s name, and stare at the conversation. His messages from yesterday look smaller somehow. Less urgent. Like they’re already fading into the past.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I could text him. Could ask how he’s doing, if he wants to talk. Could admit that Saturday night felt good but like a mistake I won’t repeat again.

Could be honest for the first time in weeks.

I type: Can we talk?

Then I delete it.

Type: I’m sorry about the other night.

Delete.

Type: I miss you.

Delete delete delete.

I toss the phone across the bed and stare at it.

Tears threaten to blur my vision. I’m so fucking sad that we broke up.

I can’t lie to myself about that. No one goes into a relationship thinking about how it’s going to end.

We actually think it’s going to work out.

That because we love someone, we put our differences aside and make it work.

I shake my head because it doesn’t always play out that way.

Instead it’s always about someone’s needs not being met, communication going straight to hell, and screaming at him, trying to be heard.

I know I can’t be with him anymore. There was too much that was said, and it’s beyond repairment.

I guess that’s the part that breaks me the most. I wish we could go back to when we first got together. Everything seemed so perfect back then.

And I’m crying. My pillow soaks with my tears, and I wish I had never met him, so that I didn’t have to feel this way.

This whiplash. I’ve been through it before with him, but this time I’m standing my ground.

We need the space. I need to move on. If everyone is right, there is someone out there for me that’s better.

I lay on my back, imagining that person in the future. He would judge me for crying like this over some college boy, wouldn’t he? Especially one like Zeke.

I force myself to focus on the paper, managing to string together three paragraphs. Go me. The afternoon stretches endlessly. Every sound in the hallway makes me look up. Every notification makes my heart race.

By the time Payton gets back from her study group, I’ve written exactly one page and refreshed Instagram approximately fifty times.

“How’s the paper coming?” she asks, dumping her books on her desk.

“Slowly,” I lie, minimizing the window.

“Want to work together? We could order pizza, make it a study party.”

The offer is tempting. Payton’s company would be a distraction, her steady presence keeping me anchored to the present instead of spiraling into Saturday night memories.

But I also know she’ll want to talk. About the party, about Zeke, about how I’m going to move on and feel better soon. Frankly, I’m in no mood to hear that everything will be okay. I want to wallow in my heartbreak.

“Thanks, but I think I need to focus,” I say. “Rain check?”

She nods, already pulling out her own laptop. “No worries. I’ll probably head to Emma’s later anyway. She’s making dinner.”

“Sounds fun.”

We settle into comfortable silence, both typing away at our respective assignments. But while Payton’s fingers fly across her keyboard, mine barely move. I manage another paragraph before giving up entirely, switching to mindlessly scrolling through news articles and social media posts.

Anything to quiet the noise in my head.

When Payton leaves for Emma’s around six, the room feels cavernous. I consider going with her. Emma always cooks too much, and the distraction would be welcome, but I use the paper as an excuse to stay behind.

Truth is, I want to be alone with my thoughts. Want to sit with the discomfort until it either kills me or teaches me something.

I curl up on my bed, laptop balanced on my knees, and stare at the half-finished essay.

I delete a few sentences that make no sense and close the laptop. I can’t do this tonight. Can’t pretend to understand anything when I don’t even understand myself.

My phone sits on the nightstand, screen black and silent. It’s been hours since the last group chat message. Hours since anyone tried to reach me at all.

I pick up the phone and scroll to his contact. My thumb hovers over his name, heart hammering against my ribs. What would I say? That I’ve been thinking about him nonstop? That we seriously can’t do this because we’re not good together?

The truth sits in my throat like a stone.

I start typing. You shouldn’t have kissed me.

Then I delete it.

Type, why did you follow me out?

Delete.

Type, This sucks.

Delete.

Each attempt feels more pathetic than the last. Like I’m begging for scraps of attention from someone who’s already moved on.

Maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I lock the phone and toss it back onto the nightstand, but my eyes keep drifting to it. Waiting for the screen to light up. Waiting for proof that I’m not alone in this spiral.

The room grows dark around me. I don’t bother turning on the lights. The darkness feels appropriate—matches the weight in my chest, the confusion tangled in my thoughts.

I should text him. Or I should delete his number and force myself to move on. The middle ground is torture, this liminal space where I’m neither healing nor reconnecting. Just suspended in uncertainty.

I pick up my phone one more time, resolved to make a decision. Any decision.

His name glows on the screen, and my finger hovers over the call button. What would happen if I just called? If I bypassed the careful construction of text messages and just... talked to him?

But before I can lose my nerve, my phone buzzes in my hand.

The screen lights up.

Zeke.