Page 157 of A Little Broken

It feels more like Rory than Tatum, though. I glance at Rory’s perfectly made bed and the mess of sheets covering Tatum’s. The comparison makes me smile.

“Make yourself at home,” she announces. “I need to go to the bathroom, but I’ll be right back, then we can pick a show or whatever.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be here,” I return when my phone rings. As I pull it out of my pocket, Tatum disappears into the bathroom, and I answer the call. “Hello?”

“You know, when we mentioned entertaining the paparazzi, having nude photos leaked and an arrest connected to you wasn’t exactly what we had in mind,” Dodger mutters.

With a low laugh, I walk around the room, perusing the photos hanging on the wall. “Isn’t this old news at this point?”

“Maybe for you, but they just posted the article, and Mindy’s pissed,” he adds, mentioning the head of our PR firm.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, whatever.” The amusement in his voice fades, replaced with concern. “She okay?”

“Yeah, man. Tatum’s good. Like I said, this is old news.”

“Good. Mindy asked if you’d give her a call, though. Just to make sure she’s in the loop.”

As I collapse onto Tatum’s bed, something hits the ground with a quiet thump. I look over the edge, finding a worn notebook. “Sure thing. I, uh, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“See ya, man.”

I hang up the call and reach for the open notebook so I can put it back on the bed. When my attention catches on the nameArcher written in swirly, girlish handwriting, my adrenaline spikes.

What the…?

Before I can stop myself, I begin scanning the words on the page. It’s a letter. A letter to Archer. How old is this? It must be new, considering it was opened to this page. Unless Tatum was rereading it, but why would she? Shoving my questions aside, I focus on the words, my heart thumping faster and faster with every line.

Hey, Archer.

I miss you.

Shit.

I miss you a lot, just like always. But a little less today. And more. Which is strange, you know? How can someone miss someone more and less than usual? It’s almost like…I miss you more because I catch myself not thinking about you and that feels…wrong. But also kind of good, which makes me feel guilty. Surprise, surprise. And round and round I go. It’s confusing and annoying and distracting.

I don’t know.

I kind of met someone.

My breath catches, and I reread the sentence. She met someone.Me.She’s writing about me? Talking about me withhim? The realization hits harder than a blow with a baseball bat, and my fingers dig into the worn pages.

And I kind of like him, too. I also kind of hate him because I think he’s the culprit behind my whole missing you conundrum.

Fuck, Birthday Girl. I would hate me, too.

Is that weird? It feels weird. Lots of things feel weird. Kissing him doesn’t, though. Feeling guilty afterward does. I know I don’t owe you anything. But choosing to forget you? Choosing to be happy and to focus on my…whatever…with someone who isn’t you? It’s like a sore tooth. You know what I mean? Like, I can’t help but pick at it. Add pressure to see if it still hurts or if the initial pain is going away. Maybe it’s why I’m writing you. To see if it still hurts. Spoiler alert: it does.

“What are you doing?” a soft voice whispers.

I snap the journal closed, my neck practically spraining as I look up to find Tatum staring at me.

She looks…she looks fucking perfect. A pair of boyshorts play peekaboo beneath an IndieCent Vows hoodie. It’s the same one I caught her in when I showed up after the naked photo leak. Her long legs look like they go on for miles. But her eyes? They’re guarded and unsure, which I’m not sure is any better than the daggers I expected.

Fuck. What the hell was I doing?

Guilt stabs between my ribcage. I set the journal on the edge of her bed, standing slowly. “Tate?—”

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