Page 150 of Can't Text This

“Yeah? How can you tell?”

“You just know it when you know it,” he says, like he’s a little Yoda or some shit.

And people say kids don’t know anything—bull. They can be intuitive little turds sometimes.

“Do you know why she’s sad?”

“Nope. I just know she is. I can ask her if you want.”

“No, buddy, don’t do that. It’s rude.”

“Is bringing her a donut rude too?” he asks hopefully.

“No, that’s not rude at all.”

“Then can we?”

“Well, I guess if it’s for Mon—Miss Andrews, then we can get up early and get a donut.”

“Maybe one for me too.”

“We’ll see.”

My throat tightens as I pull into my apartment complex, thinking of the last time I saw Monty.

It hurts to know she’s miserable, hurts even more to know she’s hurting so much the kids are picking up on it, and it’s all my fault.

The urge to cry begins to swell, which is really fucking stupid because I do not cry, dammit.

I want to though. I also want to scream, and I want to drive to Monty’s place right now, bust down her door, and tell her I’m a dumbass and we should be together.

I should fight for her and for us.

I want a future with her, and I don’t want to give up.

I fucking love her.

I want to tell her all that, because I do.

I love Montana Andrews, and I’m going to make damn sure she knows it.

Twenty-Seven

Monty

“Monty!”Denny rattles me from my sleep with her loud screech. “Get your scrawny, pale ass out of bed. You’re going to be late!”

“No, I have another ten minutes.”

“Yeah, ten minutes until you have to leave.”

I spring from the bed, glancing at my phone sitting on my bedside table.Oh cats.“I’m going to be late!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying tell you. Get up!”

“I am, I am!”

I race around my room, pulling clothes on and trying to get my messy mane under control.

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