Page 169 of The Play Maker

“Mais?” I call out, rubbing the back of my neck with the towel.

Nothing.

Okay. Maybe she went to the kitchen. Or to our downstairs bathroom.

Except… her sweater’s not here either.

Neither is her bra. Or her leggings. No shoes by the door. Her phone’s gone from the nightstand.

My stomach tightens, an ache blooming low and slow in my chest.

I grab my own phone off the desk, my hands already clammy, and that’s when I see it.

One new message.

Cherry.

My heart stutters. I open it and as I read, every muscle in my body locks.

I drop down onto my bed, my towel slipping, water still dripping from my hair.

Fuck.

She knows.

She figured it out.

She sent me that message thinking she was talking to Six and watched it light up on my phone. Saw her own words flash on my screen and put the pieces together.

And now she’s gone, because she thinks I lied to her. Used her. Played her or whatever twisted story she’s telling herself.

Because I didn’t tell her. I just let her keep talking, keep opening up, keep trusting me, even after she sat right in front of me and told me about Six.

She told me everything abouthim—aboutme—and I didn’t say a goddamn word.

I scramble to get dressed, my stomach sinking like a stone. The jeans from last night, a hoodie thrown over, my fingers fumbling to type even though my vision’s blurred.

Me:

I’m so fucking sorry. Please talk to me.

No read receipt.

Me:

I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I was going to tell you. I swear. I just?—

I stop. My fingers hover over the screen.

What the hell do I even say?

That I got scared? That I fell for her twice—once through a screen, and then again in person—and I didn’t know how to make those versions line up?

None of it feels like enough.

But I need to fix this somehow before it’s too late.

I grab my keys, yank on some sneakers, and race down the stairs.