Page 56 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Another big mistake.
The room tilts—or perhaps that’s just my soul trying to escape my body. Either way, I flop back down with a pitiful whimper.
Official diagnosis?
I’m dying.
It’s over for me.
Please bury me in my coziest sweater with a venti iced coffee in my hands. Preferably a vanilla latte with an extra shot, because if I’m meeting my end like this, I at least want caffeine in the afterlife.
I will make it to the kitchen.
I have to make it to the kitchen.
My head? Pounding.
My stomach? Negotiating a deal with gravity.
My soul? Actively reconsidering its lease in my body.
I grip the counter, gulping down a glass of water like I’ve been lost in the desert for days. Once that’s done, I grab my phone from where it’s been abandoned—dead, lifeless, and holding the truth about whatever drunken disaster I caused last night.
I plug it in.
Then I wait . . .
And wait . . . because I know Drunk Olivia. That bitch never stays in her lane.
Drunk Olivia makes poor decisions.
Drunk Olivia does not believe in self-preservation.
Drunk Olivia thinks she’s a flirt but is actually just a menace to herself and others.
The screen finally flickers to life.
I brace myself, praying that I’m wrong and that Drunk Olivia might actually be a responsible adult. However, I quickly realize she’s, in fact, not responsible. She remains the same trouble-seeking, trouble-making hurricane.
Slowly—like I’m dismantling a bomb—I read through the missing text from none other than Lucian Crawford.
There are five unread texts. That’s not bad. Maybe I ignored him. At least, it’s the lie I tell myself as my soul attempts to leave my body.
No.
No, no, no.
Then I go into denial. I did not text Lucian last night.
I didn’t allow myself to be baited into another round of flirting with the human embodiment of temptation and disaster.
I do not play games I can’t win.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I open our conversation.
And there it is.
The wreckage.
