Page 78 of The Accidental Text

I should say something funny right now like,What will we have to talk about now?Or,Let’s not let Devon hire any more friends, mmkay?But I’m not really in a joking mood.

I think he’s going to leave—at least it feels like this is thepoint in the conversation when it would seem appropriate for him to make his departure—but he just sits there. Half of a grin on his face. It’s kind of like Chase’s half-grin. But I like Chase’s way more.

He opens his mouth to talk and then stops himself. And then does it again. Open and close. “I saw that Chase guy at Drives for Dreams,” he says, finally. “The one from the party?”

So he noticed that. Interesting. “Yeah,” I say. “Uh … Devon gave him a ride in the Lamborghini.”

“Right,” Dawson says, nodding his head. “I heard he threw up.”

I picture poor Chase on the asphalt of the track, releasing everything he’d eaten before he got there. I feel bad that word got around about that, though I doubt he would care. “Yeah, he did.”

Dawson reaches up and rubs his jaw, chuckling. He looks to the side, toward the wall with all my pictures of my family. The one that semi-inspired Chase to follow his adventurous dreams.

“I saw Natasha,” I say.

She showed up toward the end. This time in a short jean skirt, a tight tube top, and platform sandals. She looked like she was going clubbing rather than hanging out at a racetrack. She kept taking selfies with all the cars, doing this pout thing with her lips.

“Yeah,” says Dawson.

“That must have been … fun.” It’s so hard for me to fake it when it comes to her.

He takes a deep breath in through his teeth. “Yeah, you won’t be seeing much of her anymore.”

“No?”

“We’re officially done.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry?”

He smiles, and I think it’s because I said that in the form of a question. “Thanks,” he says. Then he stands up. “Well, I guess I should get to it.”

“Good luck,” I say.

I watch as he walks away. I may be feeling a little numb toward him, but I can’t help a quick glance at his retreating form. Just before he goes out my office door, he looks back over his shoulder at me and smiles.

“Oh, sister, he wanted you to know that,” Hannah says, pointing her chopsticks at me.

We’re back at Hannah’s childhood home, eating food made by Halmoni, and I’ve just told her all about my day. Halmoni made my favorite noodles tonight. She also lectured me—through Hannah—about my split ends. I really am overdue for a trim.

“Chase said the same thing.”

Hannah freezes, noodles dangling in front of her mouth. “You told Chase before me?”

“You didn’t answer your phone,” I say defensively. The truth is that I told Chase first, on purpose, without even thinking about it, but she doesn’t need to know this.

“This annoys me.”

“Sorry. You know I love you best.”

“I’m starting to wonder.”

I ignore her and focus on my noodles.

After a quiet bit while we eat and Halmoni can be heardcleaning in the kitchen, I say, “Is it weird that I’m kind ofmehabout it … about Dawson?”

“A little,” she says, after taking a bite. “But maybe you’re like hormonal or something. Or just emotionally spent.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “What would you know about being emotionally spent?”

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