Page 70 of The Play Maker

I stare at the message so long the words start to blur. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, frozen, thinking all of the reasons why it would be the worst idea ever.

Because… I’m scared.

Because if we meet, you’ll see me. You’ll see the soft curve of my stomach, the way my thighs touch, the roundness of my face, and I’ll see it happen—the moment your face changes. The flicker of disappointment. The moment you realize that the girl you built in your head doesn’t match the one standing in front of you.

Because I’m more than just my body, but no one ever seems to look past it.

And I don’t want you to be one of those people.

Me:

It’s just better like this.

Six:

Better for who, Cherry?

I don’t know what to say to that. Not without telling him the truth. That it’s easier to be invisible than to be seen and rejected.

I drop my phone onto my nightstand and drag my laptop across the blanket, flipping it open before I queue up a rom-com I’ve seen more times than I can count. The opening credits start to roll, and I let out a content sigh.

I love love.

I always have. Even when it feels like I’ll never get to experience it myself.

I tuck my hands under my cheek as I watch the movie, wondering if anyone will ever look at me the way those guys look at the girls in movies? Will anyone look at me and think ‘Wow.She’s beautiful.’? Will anyone ever hold my hand in public, or press their forehead to mine like they can’t believe I’m real?

It’s the cruelest kind of irony. I hate men. But I still want one. I want to be seen. Held. Chosen. Just once. Just to see what it feels like.

My phone buzzes again, and I sneak a glance at the screen, but this time it’s not Six.

Austin:

hey ur in hawthorn hall right?

I blink, staring at the screen. His texts are always messy. No punctuation, no capital letters. Sometimes words are wrong. But they sound like him. I like knowing he put effort into texting me when he probably hates it.

Me:

Yes?

Austin:

whats ur room number?

Me:

Why?

Austin:

just tell me. please.

I freeze for a second, staring at the message. Why the hell is Austin Rhodes asking for my room number? My mind starts racing, running through every possible reason. Maybe he’s messing with me, maybe he’s had a few drinks, or maybe he’s here for some girl in my building.

Against my better judgment, I type it out anyway.

And five minutes later, there’s a knock at my door.