Page 213 of His To Erase

I glance over my shoulder toward Sarah, who’s mid-sarcasm with Devin again.

UNKNOWN: So brave behind other people’s doors. Let’s see how brave you are alone.

FRANK: Could’ve sworn we had plans. Let me know when you’re off.

STEVEN: Ani. Pick up your fucking phone.

I haven’t talked to Steven since I left his house. Since he said things I can’t unhear, and I said things I can’t take back.

But still—he’s the one I want to respond to, and that’s what makes this worse, because if I text Frank, I’m playing intowhatever he’s trying to spin. If I text Steven, I’m letting him back in.

And if I do nothing, I’m going to explode. My thumb hovers over Steven’s name, but I just shove the phone into my pocket and keep working.

As for the unknown numbers, it’s the same shit different day. So I do what I always do, and don’t respond. I just sit there, spiraling with my fists clenched, so I don’t do anything stupid.

“Yo.” Sarah leans across the bar and snaps her fingers near my face. “You good, or are we planning a murder? Blink once for unalive.”

I force a breath and shake my head. “Nah. Just tired.”

Which is only partly true. I am tired—bone-deep, soul-level, emotionally dry-heaving tired—but mostly, I just need to get the hell out of here before I say something I can’t take back. I can’t involve her, it’s not safe.

I clock out ten minutes early and tell Sarah I’ve got cramps, which is both a lie and not. She narrows her eyes like she knows, but lets it go. She just tells me to text her when I get home and reminds me not to crawl for any man unless he’s buying us both brunch afterward.

I fake a laugh, shoving open the back door, and request the Uber before I hit the alley. By the time I’m outside it’s already waiting.

The make and plates match the text, so I yank the door open, slide in, and slam it shut harder than I need to as the car starts moving.

Ani

I’m looking down at my phone, double-checking that I actually texted Sarah to apologize for bailing early. Nothing about tonight feels real, and if this driver takes one wrong turn, I’m tucking and rolling straight onto the pavement.

“Someone’s dramatic tonight.”

My blood freezes over and my head whips to the driver’s seat. Steven’s hands are relaxed on the wheel, with a smirk ghosting his mouth. His eyes are full of trouble in the rearview.

“You stole a car,” I breathe, like that’s the most offensive part.

“I borrowed it,” he says smoothly. “From someone who won’t be needing it for a while.”

“You’re stalking me.”

He snorts. “You ordered the ride. I’m just punctual.”

I glare at him through the mirror, but the car's already moving, and I know better than to open the door mid-drive.Though I’m highly considering it.

“I hate you,” I mutter.

“Lie better.”

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. The car slows to a stop and I’m already reaching for the handle when he adds, “You done being pissed? Or do I need to drag you upstairs and work it out of you?”

I slam the door without answering, knowing what it’s going to cost me. I don’t care. He follows close, but I don’t wait. I storm up the steps, two at a time, keys shaking in my hand—but whether it’s rage or adrenaline, I don’t know. By the time I shove the door open, I’m breathing hard, and I’m wet. I head straight for the kitchen just to give myself something to do.

The lock clicks behind me. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

I don’t turn around.

“Maybe because I didn’t want to talk to you.”