Page 80 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
By the time I crawl into bed, I’ve walked five miles, answered eighteen texts from the contractor (most of which were about how the fixtures in my bathroom “aren’t harmonious” with the rest of the house—and one deeply suspicious mention of raccoons), filled out three shelter reports, and tried to persuadeSarah to eat something other than the gourmet meatloaf I made specifically for her last night or my sock.
She chose the sock. Again.
I’m exhausted. Deeply exhausted. The kind of tired where your eyelids feel like they’re made of concrete, and your internal organs are whispering, “Just give up.”
And yet, Sarah is still performing as if she’s starring in an off-Broadway tragedy. She’s curled right in the middle of my bed with her head on the pillow, as if she pays rent and contributes emotionally to this household. She’s literally moving closer and closer, trying to get me kicked out of my own bed. If she had it her way, I’d be forced to crash on the couch while she enjoys my bed.
“You’re ridiculous,” I mumble, trying to nudge her like a normal person with boundaries.
She sighs—an actual sigh and rolls over, pressing her back against my ribs as if I were her mattress and she had chosen me as a warm wall for support.
I blink up at the ceiling. “Oh my God, you’re pushing it, Sarah. You’re pushing so far.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Lucian: You awake?
My entire body reacts before my brain even registers it—thumb tapping to open the message, heart performing a full cartwheel as if we’re in a romcom montage and I’m the idiot who didn’t realize I was already falling.
Olivia: Barely.
Lucian: You decent? If not I’m okay with that.
Olivia: That’s subjective. Suppose you mean emotionally. Absolutely not.
Lucian: Starting a video call in 3 . . . 2 . . .
And then boom—Lucian Crawford, in full HD glory.
Tank top. Damp hair. Jaw unshaven. Golden-boy glow turned up to eleven. He resembles a magazine model who accidentally wandered into your video call. My brain immediately short-circuits. He smiles, his eyes sweeping over my face as if taking inventory of every reason I shouldn’t be trusted alone with him.
“Hey,” he says, low and easy.
I raise a brow. “You called to flirt, didn’t you?”
“Always.” He stretches like he knows what he’s doing to me. “But mostly, I wanted to check on my favorite girl.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “I’ve been replaced already?”
Lucian smirks. “I meant Sarah, obviously.”
“She’s thriving,” I reply, panning the camera to show his spoiled, traitorous dog sprawled across my bed as if she pays the mortgage. The moment she spots him, Sarah lifts her head and lets out a dramatic yowl, as though she’s spotted her long-lost soulmate across enemy lines in a war movie.
Lucian’s face twists in actual pain. “Oh, baby. Don’t cry.”
“She’s fine,” I say, unimpressed.
“She’s devastated,” he counters, like he’s ready to drive cross-country and give her a forehead kiss.
“She just had a spoonful of peanut butter and took a nap. She’s emotionally manipulating you so that you’ll jump on a plane and come to her.”
He places a hand on his heart. “Tell her I miss her.”
“You tell her. This is a live feed.”
Lucian leans toward the camera, feigning seriousness. “Sarah, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I’ll be home soon. Stay strong, my girl.”
Sarah groans like she understands every word.
