Page 85 of The Accidental Text

“So he doesn’t want his car wrapped?” Devon asks.

I shake my head.

“No Lexus LC five hundred?”

“He really does drive a Honda Accord.”

Devon makes a sour face at this bit of info.

“Wait … so that story was totally made up. Did his mom really die?” Chelsea asks.

“She did,” I say.

“Before Mom?”

I shake my head. It feels wrong to share this part of Chase. Like it’s not my story to tell. “In March,” is all I offer.

I’m not sure if my family can put two and two together with this information.

“That’s … how sad,” June says, her head tilted to the side, her soft eyes on me.

“So are you like, what? Are you with this guy or something?” Devon asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “We’re friends.”

June makes a little smacking noise with her mouth and I lookback at her. She has her hand resting on her heart. “I think that’s just lovely,” she says. “What a way to meet someone.”

“A creepy way,” Chelsea says.

I squint my eyes at Chelsea, annoyed with her reaction. I should be more understanding. Chase has become more to me than just someone I’ve been texting.Somuch more. But it’s hard to convey that when the way we met is just so freaking weird.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” I say, looking around the room at my family. The family who will probably have another meeting without me, this time to discuss my sanity. I’m now fragile with a side of insane.

“Well,” my dad says after a few beats of silence. He looks around the room. “Who wants some pie?”

Devon raises his hand. “I’ll take some.”

“Me too,” Chelsea says.

And just like that, my job is done. Peace once again restored. At least for now.

Ifeel Chase’s chuckle more than I hear it. We’re lying on my bed and I’m turned toward him, my face buried into his shoulder, his arm around me.

“You said you would take it to the grave,” Chase says.

“I know,” I say, the words coming out muffled with my face against his shirt.

He smells of that same cologne—the one I still can’t name—mixed with the scent of fabric softener from the black fitted tee he’s wearing.

I lift my face up and give him a defeated look. Then I lie back, using his bicep as a pillow. He pulls me toward him, resting his hand on my arm. He gives it a squeeze.

I texted Chase before I left my dad’s house, asking if he could come over. Hannah has been working all weekend on the same case, the one that’s been taking all her time for the past month.

I needed to vent, and who better to vent to than the reason for my need to vent? Sort of. He’s more like an innocent bystander.

When Chase got here I gave him a tour of our small apartment, and then we took a seat on my bed and I started telling him what happened. As we talked, he kicked off his flip-flops, scooted back on my full-size bed, and laid his head on my pillow, patting the spot he’d left next to him. That’s how we ended up here, lying on my bed, looking up at the dormant ceiling fan.

“Well, the cat’s out of the bag,” he says.

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