Page 145 of The Future Play

“So help me God, if you cheated on Amanda, I will help the girls string you up by your balls.”

“Me too!” a voice calls from the background. Trevor. That tracks.

“I didn’t cheat on her. I… Give me two seconds.” My mind is fuzzy, and I’m still trying to make sense of what he’s saying as I make my way out to the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and down it all. “Okay, I’m back.”

“Get to the point a lot faster.”

“What point?”

“Who was she? Where did she sleep? Why was your arm around her?”

“Relax. It was just the reporter who’s doing a piece on me. My dumb ass got drunk last night before we were supposed to meet. She was pissed, but she took pity on me and made sure I got home. She went as far as my apartment door, then she left.”

“Then why the fuck weren’t you answering your phone last night?”

I squint for a second. Was I not answering? My phone… well, it’s in my hand now. I pulled it out of my bag when I stumbled into the apartment because I needed to set my alarm—I glance at the clock—which didn’t go off.

Sitting down at the counter, I take a few deep breaths. “It was in my bag. I didn’t realize…” Everything finally slams together in my mind. “How did you know about the reporter helping me home?”

“You’re all over the tabloids and gossip sites.”

I stumble to my feet, horror slicing through me. “Amanda. Amanda?”

“Oh, she saw it. But that’s not the worst of it. She needed to talk to you before any of that happened. She called you a billion times last night.”

“Fuck!”

“That’s more like it. Call her. Right. Now. And you better fall to your knees and apologize.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hang up, and though I’m about to press Amanda’s number, I pause to look through the literal hundreds of missed calls I have from her, the guys, my parents, my agent, and the Metros PR team.

I quickly open my browser and search my own name. What comes up is a grainy picture of me, arm around Emily as she helps me inside. No one can see her face, but even from behind she looks nothing like Amanda, and my face is completely visible.

I scramble to call Amanda as I realize how colossally I’ve screwed up.

“Are you alive?” Amanda’s icy voice fills my ear.

“Yes. And I’m sorry. I’m so?—”

“We need to talk. In person.”

“Uh, can?—”

“Meet me at our apartment in Ida at one.”

What can I say to that besides yes?

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

“Amanda—”

“We’ll talk later.”

Then she hangs up.

---