Page 71 of That's Too Pucking Bad

I grab my phone and send a quick text.

Remy: Can we meet tomorrow?

Nothing. I watch as the message turns “read,” but no reply. I bite my lip, feeling stupid for hoping he’d answer. Maybe he’s with his friends. Or maybe...maybe he got what he wanted and doesn’t care anymore.

Zane wouldn’t be the kind of person to throw a fit because I missed our date, would he?

Then I remember him flirting with that blonde girl just because I said I wanted to be friends with him, and that is when I feel bile rise in my throat.

I feel anxious and I am not sure why.

Still, it doesn’t stop this weird ache from sticking around. God, I hate this.

I wake up, tangled in sheets and already hot. My mouth’s dry, and every nerve is still on edge from that damn dream. Zane’s mask, the hard edge of his jaw under it, and his hands. Everywhere. I squeeze my eyes shut, my body still thrumming, aching from the memory, and it doesn’t help that my sheets still smell faintly of him.

I roll over, reaching for my phone. No new texts. Typical. Last night I had this faint hope that maybe he’d check in, even if it’s just a half-assed message. But no. Not a single text from him since… I don’t know, days. Zane’s pretty good at disappearing when he wants to. I should be used to it by now.

Instead, there’s a message from Colin.

Colin: Can I come over this morning?

My thumb hovers over the reply button, my brain still fuzzy with images from the dream. He’s probably here to talk about... how I’ve been dodging him. Not that he’s innocent either, but still. Whatever. We’ll just have coffee and talk about it. And then he’ll be off to whatever he’s doing, and I’ll be going to class.

Remy: Sure, 8 AM? I leave for class at 9.

He replies right away with a simple thumbs up.

I sigh and toss the phone on the bed, forcing myself up. Every step to the shower feels like I’m dragging lead weights, probably because the shower is just going to make it worse. I crank up the hot water and step in, letting the steam roll aroundme. But my mind’s immediately back to Zane. His stupid smirk, the low rasp of his voice, and God, those hands.

And this knot’s building in me— tight and impossible to ignore. I could take care of it, but the whole thing feels... wrong, like some messed-up betrayal. After all, Colin’s coming over in an hour, and here I am thinking about Zane like he’s got any right to be here. Like he owns my mornings or something. I groan, scrubbing my scalp as if that’ll knock some sense into me.

Out of the shower, I towel off and pull on something casual but cute—fitted jeans, a loose gray sweater that slips off one shoulder, and my black Converse. I braid my hair, swipe on some tinted lip balm, and take one last look in the mirror. Simple, effortless… safe. Just enough to look like I’m not still thinking about Zane.

In the living room, I grab a random book off the shelf and flop down on the couch.How to Fake It in Hollywood. I crack it open, settling in, but my brain’s on everything except the words. This is the same couch where I lost my virginity, where I found Zane cleaning up the mess we’d made, in just his boxers, hair mussed, and that stupid grin on his face. I’m smiling to myself when I hear a knock at the door.

Weird. Colin doesn’t knock.

I open the door, and Colin’s there, looking… rough. His shirt’s wrinkled, hair a mess, and he’s got this look on his face that’s somewhere between exhausted and defeated. Not exactly the Colin I’m used to seeing, polished and put together.

“Hey,” he mutters, stepping inside.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask, frowning a little as I close the door. He’s not looking at me, just wandering over to the kitchen table and sitting down, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands.

I grab a couple of mugs and start the coffee. “So… what’s going on?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

He shrugs, not answering right away. Just staring at his hands like they’ve got the answers to the universe written on them or something.

“Colin?” I sit across from him, pushing one of the mugs toward him. “Talk to me.”

He looks up, finally, his mouth set in a hard line. “We need to talk, Remy.”

“Okay.” I force myself to hold his gaze, trying to read him, but he’s giving nothing away. “Is this about the other night? Because, yeah, I know I’ve been—”

“No, it’s not about that.” He cuts me off, voice flat. “It’s, well, it’s everything. Us.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. “What about us?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve been thinking a lot, actually. About you, about us, and I just I don’t think this is working, Remy.”

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