Page 9 of The Trophy

The real shock is caused by the fact that I feel absolutely nothing for the guy I dated for over three years.

Ok, maybe not nothing. I actually feel plenty of things. But it’s none of the stuff I thought I would feel when in the days after the breakup, I pictured him changing his mind. My heart doesn’t leap out of my chest, I don’t run into his arms like they do in rom-coms when the hero does a grand gesture and they get back together.

Granted, usually the hero looks a lot hotter than Jonathan and he manscapes.

A pang of guilt invades me as I stare at my ex, frozen like a deer in front of the proverbial headlights.

When did I become so mean and judge a guy by the size of his dick and by how well groomed he is down under?

Maybe when you finally saw the light and started dating not one, not two but three real hotties. Hotties who have muscles for days and shave any unsightly hair down there.

The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Bay and I turn to glare at her.

“What?” she shrugs innocently but I can see the little smirk that’s fighting to come to the surface in the way she twists her lips.

“Nothing,” I say, wondering if that voice is my self-conscious or if Bay has somehow figured out some telepathic communication between us. Nothing would surprise when it comes to my twin sister. She’s been claiming that if we worked on it, we could talk to each other using telepathy.

“Jon,” I grab my Star Cove Knights sweatshirt and throw it at him. “Please, first off cover up. And after you’re a little more presentable, you have a lot to explain.”

I rush out of my room, practically running into the living room and away from my ex.

Bay is hot on my heels. “Are you alright, Lakey-Lake?” she asks softly.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I—I didn’t expect to see Jon again any time soon. Especially not so much of him,” I squeak.

“Or so little,” Bay snorts. “Because let’s face it, sis. That dick looks even tinier in person.”

I struggle to stifle the laughter that wants to bubble to the surface. “Shut up,” I punch her bicep but I don’t put any power into it. “I can’t believe he sent that unsolicited dick pic. It’s so out of character for him.”

Bay isn’t even trying to hide her hilarity anymore. “At the risk of repeating myself, if I were him, I would have stolen a dick pic off the internet rather than sending that pathetic pencil dick. Or wait, no. Pencil stub, a regular pencil is way longer than your ex-boyfriend’s cock.”

She isn’t wrong. “Bay, knock it off. Seriously I thought I knew Jon. We practically grew up together. He isn’t the type to end a three year relationship out of the blue, he isn’t a cheater and he doesn’t send dick pics.”

Bay has gotten herself under control, just barely. “I beg to differ, sis. Maybe you didn’t know your ex as well as you thought you did.”

I disagree. “Jon and I told each other everything. He was my best friend.”

She punches me back, like I just did one second ago, but hers hurts.

“Ouch.” I whine. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Take that back, Lakyn,” she glares. “I’m your best friend. And Dipshit? You obviously didn’t know him at all, since he ended your relationship out of the blue, he cheated and he sent you a dick pic.”

Fuck.

I hate it when she’s right. I’m not even going to think about the fact that lately Bay has been right a lot more than I’m comfortable with.

“You’re right,” I concede. “And I’m sorry. The only reason why I don’t count you as my best friend, it’s because you’re so much more than that, Bay. You’re my sister but it goes beyond that. You’re a part of me.”

Bay’s blue eyes fill with tears. “Aww Lakey,” she pulls me into her arms. “Same. You’re a part of me too. So much so that I know you aren’t thinking of taking Dipshit back. Right?”

“What? Of course not.” I gasp when she lets me go. “But do you think he’s here to try and get back together?”

The answer comes from my ex-boyfriend as he steps into the living room, thankfully fully clothed this time.

“Of course I’m here to get back together,” he says. “Why else would I do all this?” he points to the trampled mess of rose petals all over my apartment.

“Beats me,” my tone is harder than I intended, but you know what? After the initial shock of seeing Jon again—in his birthday suit no less—not only I don’t feel the way I thought I would when I imagined this moment while crying in front of some sugary rom-com movie. I’m positively pissed off.

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