Page 49 of Scout
I was the intermission between acts. The plot twist they’ll laugh about later, over wine, once they’re settled back into each other’s arms.
And I was stupid enough to fall for both of them.
I don’t want them thinking I was kidnapped or murdered, so I decide to text them.
Me: Thanks for letting me pretend. If only for a little bit.
Then I turn my phone off before I can regret it.
I close my eyes and try to remember the bad bitch I was before I got tangled up with two hot doctors and the messy web they wove around me.
The driver announces we’ve arrived and I blink, startled. I must’ve dozed off. My neck aches and my eyes feel gritty.
I don’t say a word as I get out, slinging my bag over my shoulder and head up to my apartment. I shut the door behind me and let the silence crash back in.
Then I do the most dramatic thing I’ve done all weekend: I toss my bag on the floor and face-plant into the couch like a teen with a broken heart. Because apparently, that’s who I am now.
I kick off my shoes and grab my bag, slinging it up onto the couch. When I unzip it, something soft catches my fingers. I blink, pulling it free. It’s a hoodie—Xavier’s. It must’ve ended up in my things when I packed. Or maybe I took it on purpose. I don’t even know anymore.
I bury my face in the fabric without thinking, and yeah… it still smells like him. Like crisp laundry and too-expensive cologne and a hint of cedar smoke.
My chest tightens. Stupid, I think.Stupid, stupid, stupid.I shove the hoodie under the couch like hiding it can undo whatever’s cracked open inside me.
I power my phone on. It lights up immediately with messages and voicemails from Kendrix and Xavier. I delete them all without reading.
Then—before I can second-guess it—I block their numbers.
Both of them.
And while I’m at it, I open the Foxy’s admin portal and pause any pending transfers from either of their accounts. I freeze my own availability for gigs, too—just in case. It takes less than a minute, just a few taps, but the finality of it knocks the wind out of me.
Pain doesn’t need help to get worse. Instead, I call Juniper.
“Hey,” I say when she picks up.
“Scout! Are you home?” Her voice is bright and full of preteen joy.
“Yeah. Just got in.”
“Can I stay with you next weekend?”
“Of course,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You’re always welcome here.”
She hesitates. “Are you okay?”
I smile, even though she can’t see it. “Just a little heartbroken, Junie Boo.”
She sighs. “Boys. They suck.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “They really do.”
We hang up and I collapse back onto the couch, grabbing the remote and flipping through trashy dating shows. Something loud and stupid and scripted.
I spend the rest of the day and all of Sunday rotting on my couch. Rotting with sour candy and stale chips. Letting reality TV melt my brain and ignoring every ping from the outside world.
Tomorrow, I’ll open my Foxy’s profile back up for gigs. Hopefully, I’ll find a new hot client to fuck the ghosts out of me.
But for now, I let myself hurt.
