Page 6 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

The meme’s actually funny. I agree that person is not ready for AP. I can picture Zeke scrolling through his feed, seeing it, and thinking of me. Knowing it would make me laugh.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Just a quick lol would be harmless. Natural. The kind of response friends send each other.

Except we’re not friends.

“Are you seriously about to text him back?” Payton’s voice cuts through my smile.

I jump, phone slipping from my hands. Payton snatches it mid-air with athletic reflexes.

“It’s just a meme,” I say, reaching for my phone back.

She holds it out of reach, scrolling through his texts. Her expression shifts from curious to horrified. “Kara. He’s been texting you and you haven’t blocked him yet?”

“I—”

“Look at this.” She reads his messages aloud. “ You make it home okay? You okay? Then this random meme like nothing happened.” Her eyes snap to mine. “Classic manipulation to get you to respond.”

“It’s not manipulation. He’s just—”

“Just what? Checking in? Being sweet?” Payton’s voice climbs higher. “This is exactly how it always starts. First the innocent check-ins, then the inside jokes, then suddenly you’re back in his bed crying about how he doesn’t trust you.”

The words hit hard because they’re true. Every reunion follows the same pattern. Sweet messages that remind me why I fell for him in the first place, followed by the slow slide back into the same toxic cycles that made me leave.

“You already broke up with him,” Payton continues, softer now. “You cried for three days after the last fight. Remember? You said you couldn’t keep drowning in his shit.”

I remember. I remember calling her at two in the morning because he’d accused me of flirting with his teammate’s brother at a party. Remember sobbing into my pillow because he’d looked at me like I was a stranger when I tried to explain.

“Every time you go back, it ends in tears,” Payton says. “And every time, you swear it’s the last time.”

My chest tightens. “But what if—”

“What if what? He’s changed?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “In two weeks? Kara, come on.”

I want to argue. Want to tell her about the way he kissed me Saturday night, gentle and desperate like he was afraid I’d disappear. Want to explain that maybe we just needed space to remember why we work.

But the words die in my throat because I’ve had this conversation with myself a hundred times, and it always ends the same way.

“You have to stop letting him control the cycle,” Payton says. “Every time you break up, he gets to decide when you get back together. He waits until you’re getting your life back, then swoops in with just enough attention to pull you back in.”

The truth of it settles in my stomach like a stone.

“I’m blocking him,” she announces, fingers flying over my screen.

“Wait—” Panic flares in my chest. “Don’t—”

But it’s too late. She hands me back the phone, and Zeke’s contact is gone. Not just muted or hidden. Gone.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “Now you can actually move on.”

I stare at the screen, heart hammering. The absence of his name feels wrong, like a missing tooth I can’t stop probing with my tongue. What if he notices? What if he tries to call and realizes I blocked him? What if he doesn’t notice at all?

“This is what being free feels like,” Payton says, squeezing my shoulder. “Trust me.”

I nod because I’m supposed to agree, supposed to feel relieved. And part of me does. The part that’s tired of checking my phone every five minutes, tired of analyzing every interaction for hidden meaning, tired of the constant emotional whiplash.

But another part feels like I just cut off a limb.

We head to our classes, Payton chattering about weekend plans while I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I try to sink into it. Try to remember what it felt like before Zeke became the center of my orbit.

In class, I actually take notes. Real notes, not just doodles and spirals. When he talks about what’s going to be on the midterm, I write down every word instead of letting my mind wander to brown eyes and callused hands.

My phone buzzes during the lecture. My stomach clenches reflexively, but then I remember he can’t reach me anymore. The notification is just Emma sending a meme to the group chat. Relief and disappointment tangle in my chest.

By lunch, I’m almost convinced this was the right choice.

Our usual table sits in the corner by the windows, afternoon light streaming across scratched linoleum. Tori and Emma are already deep in conversation when Payton and I arrive.

“Finally,” Tori says. “Emma was just telling me about her statistics professor’s meltdown yesterday.”

“He threw an actual tantrum,” Emma explains, unwrapping her sandwich. “Like a toddler. Just because half the class failed the quiz.”

“Maybe because his quizzes are impossible,” Payton suggests.

They fall into easy gossip about professors and assignments while I pick at my salad. The conversation flows around me like water, familiar and comfortable. This is what normal feels like. Friends talking about school instead of analyzing every text message for hidden meaning.

“Speaking of impossible,” Tori says, grinning at Payton. “Any Wolf Boy sightings?”

Payton groans. “No. I’m starting to think he’s a myth.”

“Or just avoiding his stalker,” Emma teases.

“Rude. I’m a catch.”

We laugh.

Lola’s been quiet through the whole exchange, occasionally glancing at me with that worried expression she’s been wearing since Saturday. When our eyes meet, she tilts her head slightly with a question. You okay?

I nod and force a smile. I’m fine.

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push. Not here, not with the others watching.

The afternoon passes in a blur of forced normalcy. I work on my psychology paper, actually making progress for the first time in days. I run to the campus bookstore to grab supplies for my art history project. I even call my mom, something I’ve been putting off for weeks.

“You sound good,” she says, and I realize she’s right. For the first time in weeks, I sound like myself.

“Thanks, Mom. I feel good.”

It’s not entirely a lie. Without the constant buzz of anxiety that comes with wondering when Zeke will text, when he’ll call, when he’ll show up, my mind feels clearer. Calmer.

This is what being free feels like.

I repeat the phrase like a mantra as I get ready for my evening shift at Barnes & Noble. The bookstore is my sanctuary. It’s quiet, warm, filled with stories that have nothing to do with my life. It’s the one place where I can disappear completely.

The store is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few people browsing around and an elderly man reading poetry in the corner chair. I settle behind the counter, falling into the familiar rhythm of checking customers out, straightening displays, and restocking shelves.

Between customers, my mind wanders. Not to Zeke this time but to other things. Classes, weekend plans, the paper I’ve been meaning to finish. Normal thoughts for a normal girl living a normal life.

This is better. This is healthier.

But as the evening stretches on and the store grows quieter, the silence starts to feel heavy. In the spaces between customers, when there’s nothing to organize and no one to help, my thoughts inevitably drift.

Is he wondering why I’m not responding? Has he tried to call and realized he’s blocked? Or has he moved on?

The last thought stings more than I expect.

I shake my head, focusing on organizing things behind the counter. This is exactly what Payton was talking about. The obsessive thinking, the need to know where I stand in his mind at every moment. It’s exhausting.

And it has to stop.

By nine-thirty, the store is empty except for us workers. I start my closing routine by turning off displays, counting the register, locking the front door. The familiar tasks ground me, remind me that life exists outside of text messages and relationship drama.

I’m gathering my things when I hear a knock on the glass door. We’re closed, but sometimes people are desperate for books and try anyway. I look up, ready to point to the hours sign, and my heart stops.

Zeke stands there, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Even through the glass, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. The space between us feels charged, electric, like the air before a storm.

Then he moves to the side entrance, the one that leads to the parking lot. Waiting.

My hands shake as I finish locking up. I could slip out the back exit, avoid him entirely. Text Payton for a ride. Hide until he gives up and leaves.

But that would just delay the inevitable.

I push through the side door, purse slung over my shoulder. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and approaching winter. Zeke straightens when he sees me, stepping away from his truck.

“So you’re blocking me now?” His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the edge underneath. “I thought we agreed to end on good terms.”

Every hair on my body stands to attention. He knows. Of course he knows.

I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to buy time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp. “Don’t lie to me, Kare. My messages aren’t going through. Your number’s not connecting calls.” His eyes search my face. “Why did you block me?”

The nickname makes my chest tighten, and hearing it now feels like a key turning in a lock I thought I’d sealed shut.

“I—” I start, then stop. There’s no point denying it. “I only did it today.”

He nods slowly. “I know, but why?”

The question is simple, but the answer is anything but. How do I explain that blocking him felt like the only way to save myself? That every text from him sets me back weeks in trying to move on? That I’m tired of being caught in this cycle of breaking up and getting back together?

“Because we’re broken up,” I say finally. “That’s what broken up means.”