Page 68 of Breaking Away

My eyes close, then snap back open. I can’t shut my brain off, and I can’t let go of the laptop or the phone lying next to me as if there’s an answer in there somewhere.

I want to scream. Yell. Cry. Message my mom.

Have you talked to Tyler? Do you know if he’s behind me getting kicked out?

Then I remember what she said.

Men make stupid mistakes all the time.

That line makes me want to get up and run, and not look back. Instead, I pull up tonight’s hockey highlights on my phone.

Not for the Seattle Blades.

For the Vancouver Wings.

27

KAVI

In the morning,I snort myself awake, having fallen asleep in an old sweater from high school I haven’t worn in forever. The oversized cottony arm was going up my nose until I wheezed it away.

Turning to my side, I see my hand curled around my phone like the little addict I am. Relaxing before bed by watching a few seconds of about fifty videos.

My mouth falls open as my screen blinks on again.

Sputtering, I sit upright.

Alarmed by the level of stalking I’ve been doing, I was going to delete his number. I didn’t, but the contact screen stayed on and somewhere around six this morning my thumb must have pressed it somehow, dialing DMITRI LOKHOV.

There it is. The outgoing call.

Unanswered.

He didn’t pick up.

Good. Great. I laugh out loud. Of course, he’s done with me. There’s no car-sickness-like-sensation that I’m feeling at the idea of him seeing my call and rejecting it.

Forcing myself up, I brush my teeth, shower, and then realize there’s nothing edible in my fridge. The smart thing to do is get groceries, but I can’t find the will to comb my hair.

There’s a moment, I assume, in everyone’s life when they know they shouldn’t spend money on takeout, but they do. This is my moment. I call Jessima’s Diner, a specialty meat shop downstairs. I place an order for a breakfast sandwich, because they’ll deliver it to my doorstep.

While waiting for the food, I decide I’m going to do it. What I didn’t have the strength to finish last night, I’m going to accomplish now.

I’m going to delete Lokhov’s number, not watch his games, or re-read our text messages, or think of our time spent together in the dead of night, pretending it doesn’t count.

His hands in my hair.

You really know how to bother a man, don’t you?

How many inches can you start with?

Face on fire, my thighs clench. I’m blocking flashbacks so hard I’ve got a headache brewing.

Before I can delete the contact, my phone rings.

NO.

IT’S HIM.

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