Page 32 of The Longshot

“Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Mum squeals through the line, her voice full of excitement. “Ah, it’s going to be lovely, Chelsie! We’re so excited. Now, we mustn’t keep you, but we do have to ask: will you be bringing Simon as your date?”

Just the sound of his name is enough to make my legs go limp. I steady myself. “No…” I can barely force out the word. “We broke up, remember? I told you both this.”

Mum releases a sigh of defeat. “We know, but he’s been calling around here saying he can’t find you on the campus. It sounds like he wants to get back together with you. Are you avoiding him, Chelsie?”

My heartbeat intensifies. I can’t believe he called my parents. Christ, talking about Simon was not on my list of things I wanted to do today or ever again.

I need to get out of this conversation.

An idea comes to mind.

I knock on my dresser repeatedly.

“Oh, you hear that?” I continue to knock. “Sorry, Mum… sorry, Dad.” I pretend as if someone is at my door. “Someone is here. We’ll just have to talk later, okay?” I pick up my voice. “Talk to you soon, bye?—”

I end the call before they can so much as breathe.

“Ugh.” I groan out, falling right back onto my bed. “I should have stayed asleep.”

NINE

W I L K S

It’s a simple question.

One the second I rub the sleep away from my eyes and reach for my phone on my nightstand, I type into my web browser.

Some may say it’s an embarrassing thing to search for the second you wake up, but hey, when over forty million results come up, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who's been in this predicament.

I need to study my idiocracy.

Why?

Because perhaps by understanding it, I’ll be able to rationalize why I fumbled the bag so hard yesterday with Chelsie.

Yet, as I scour through the first few results, the articles prove to be of no help. They’re shite. Rather than giving me legitimate advice and plausible answers to my very serious question, all they’re saying is:

Don’t be so hard on yourself.

Give yourself a second chance.

Get out of your own head.

This is bollocks. I came to the internet for answers, not a fucking motivational quote.

“Screw this.” I lock my phone screen and lay it flat against my chest as I attempt to resolve my own self-doubt.

Maybe I’m not an idiot. Maybe, just maybe, Chelsie just genuinely doesn’t like me. That’s a thing, right?

I scoff. There’s no way. Everyone likes me. I’m Gary fucking Wilkinson, and I don’t care if that sounds egotistical. Sure, I get on people's nerves at times, but I’ve got a lot to offer. A lot to give.

I’ve got a dream job.

A great reputation.

My own place.

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