Page 13 of From the Wreckage

Brielle

I roll over and grab my phone, anticipation making my hands shake. But it’s not Joey who I’m hoping to hear from. It’s Everett.

Disappointment fills me. There are no new texts from him.

Sighing, I push the hair from my face, wincing as I brush the bandage. I lay on my back, my neck stiff and sore from the accident.

My fingers move before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Good morning. How are you?

My heart lurches when I see the three bubbles indicating he’s typing.

Everett: Morning. I’m good. How are you feeling?

Me: A little sore and stiff.

Everett: Typical for the day after an accident. Did you take anything yet?

Me: Not yet. Just woke up. But I will. I think a bath might help.

Everett: I’m sure it will. Take it easy today.

Me: Will do. I’ll text you later with updates.

Everett: I’ll be thinking about it until you do.

When I set my phone down, I realize I have a huge smile on my face.

Oh, boy. I’m in trouble.

I get out of bed, go through my morning routine a bit slower than usual, then follow the scent of bacon and coffee to the kitchen. Dad stands at the stove in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, humming to a classic rock station.

Hearing my footsteps, he turns with a smile, spatula still in hand. “Good morning, kiddo. How ya feeling?”

I nod, then wince, grabbing the back of my neck. “Sore from yesterday.”

“Did you take anything?”

I hold up the bottle of Motrin in my hand. “Just need a drink.”

“Put some ice on it, too.”

I nod. “That’s next. And after breakfast, a warm bath.”

“Better not flood the bathroom, kiddo. I’m not calling the plumber again.” He grins before going back to flipping eggs. “The food’s almost done.”

I swallow the pills with a gulp of water and take my usual seat at the table. Dad slides my favorite mug in front of me. I inhale deeply with a sigh of contentment that makes him laugh.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it from the pocket of my pajama pants.

Joey: Hey. Sorry I was busy yesterday.

I stare at it for a moment, debating what I should say. He usually texts me, “good morning. I miss you.”

Another text comes through.

Joey: What’ve u been up to?

Confusion rushes through me, causing my forehead to wrinkle, which in turn makes the gash in my forehead hurt.

Relaxing my features, I set my phone down.

The words knock something loose in my chest. It doesn’t sound like we’re dating.

Not even like a friend who misses me. Just…

casual. Distant. Like I’ve been downgraded without notice.

“Something wrong, kiddo?” Dad sets a plate in front of me, his eyes full of concern.

I shake my head, then say, “Just… Joey’s acting a little weird.”

“What’s he doing?”

I shrug and pick up my fork. “He didn’t respond yesterday… and now he’s talking to me like I’m one of his football buds.”

Dad makes himself a plate of food, then slides into the chair across from me. “Maybe he was busy.”

“That’s what he said.” I take a bite of scrambled eggs. “Maybe.”

“You kids haven’t seen each other this summer, huh?”

I shake my head, not saying anything more.

As I eat, it dawns on me that I should be more upset about Joey’s texts than I am.

But instead, my mind drifts back to Everett. His words wrapped around me like a warm, comforting blanket this morning.

And maybe that’s the real reason why Joey’s messages don’t sting the way they should.

By mid-afternoon, the pain and stiffness in my neck have eased, and the throbbing in my forehead has dulled to a faint ache. I grab my phone and send Everett an update.

Me: Hey. The meds, ice, and bath seem to be helping. I’m feeling better.

Everett: Glad to hear it. Don’t overdo it though.

Me: I won’t. I’m just relaxing in my room right now.

The dots appear. Stop. Start again. Stop.

My stomach flips as if I’m on a rollercoaster.

Finally, his reply comes through.

Everett: Good. Keep taking it easy.

I bite my lip, staring at the screen. That feels… unfinished.

Me: Is that really what you wanted to say? Or is there something else?

The read receipt mocks me. Seconds stretch. My heart pounds. Why did I send that?

The dots return. Stop. Return again.

I hold my breath.

Everett: You mean like I wish you were here? Cause yeah, I do.

A small gasp escapes me. Warmth spreads through my chest, giddy and reckless. It’s silly. Irrational. Dangerous. But I can’t stop smiling.

My thumb hovers before I type back.

Me: Honestly? I wish I were there, too.

I hesitate, debating whether to send it. My finger hovers—then a knock jolts me. My thumb slips, sending it anyway.

Panic flares as my dad opens the door. “Hey, kiddo. Wanna go get some ice cream?”

I plaster on a calm smile while my heart still races. “I’ll never turn down ice cream. Give me five minutes to change.”

As I’m changing, I can’t stop thinking about how badly I wish Everett had been the one knocking on my door.

The Sweet Retreat is bustling when Dad and I walk up.

The little white-and-red building looks like something out of the fifties, with striped awnings shading the windows and kids running around with sticky fingers and dripping cones.

Inside, the air is cool and sweet with the scent of waffle cones and hot fudge.

I order a hot fudge sundae piled high with whipped cream and a cherry, while Dad grins and goes all in with a banana split. We carry our treats outside to one of the umbrella tables, the sun warm on our shoulders and a light breeze tugging strands of hair into my face.

I dig into the sundae, savoring the chocolate and vanilla together, when one of Dad’s customers spots him. “Hey, Grayson!” the man calls, wandering over with a smile. Dad stands to shake his hand, falling easily into conversation about air conditioning units and the town’s summer festival.

I half-listen at first, but the buzz of my phone pulls me in. A social media notification shows that Meghan posted fifteen new photos.

I swipe it open, scrolling without much thought... Until I nearly choke on my bite of sundae.

In the background of one of Meghan’s group shots, Joey is standing with his arm slung casually around some girl I don’t recognize. She’s leaning into him, smiling, looking way too comfortable.

My stomach twists as I swipe again. Another photo. And another. Three more pictures with the same girl, and Joey’s with her in all of them.

Anger, humiliation, and disbelief rush through me. I blink, then swipe through the photos again, as if to convince myself that what I’m seeing is real.

The anger wins. I click on the text thread with Joey, my fingers moving before I can stop them.

Me: Who is she?

I stare at the screen, waiting. The dots never appear.

I continue eating my sundae, barely tasting it, watching my phone like a hawk.

Joey doesn’t respond.

By the time Dad’s customer says goodbye, my hands are shaking. I shove my phone down beside my half-eaten sundae, trying to school my expression into something neutral.

Dad slides back into his chair, eyeing me. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a smile as I stab my spoon into the melting ice cream.

His eyes narrow just slightly, his dad radar kicking in. “Is it Joey?”

My throat tightens. I glance down at the sundae and whisper, “Yeah. I think the distance is hurting us.”

Dad sighs, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Then maybe he’s not the one worth hurting over.”

I nod, and my phone buzzes softly against the table. It’s not a reply from Joey, but another notification of some more photos posted by Meghan. I swipe through them, seeing more pictures of my friends with Joey and that girl in the background. My sundae tastes like sawdust.

And still, beneath the sting of Joey’s betrayal, another truth hums louder in my chest. I should be shattered.

Instead, all I can think about is Everett and the way he makes me feel like I actually matter.