Page 8 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
For a moment, I’m not sure where I am. My brain feels fuzzy, like it’s buffering, and the ceiling above me is unfamiliar. It’s high. Wooden beams. A fan lazily spins in the center.
Not my ceiling. Not my room.
I sit up too quickly and immediately regret it. The movement makes my head throb and my stomach twist. The blankets slide off my shoulders and pool at my waist, revealing a navy shirt that’s definitely not mine.
I blink down at it. It’s enormous. Soft and worn and hanging off one shoulder. It smells faintly of clean detergent and something warmer. Something… masculine.
Jackson.
Memories from last night rush back, tripping over each other in their haste. The wedding. The photos. The crash into him. The drive. Meeting his twin boys. That look in his eyes when he told me I could stay as long as I needed.
I inhale slowly, grounding myself. This is Jackson’s guest room. I’m in Jackson’s shirt. And it’s the morning after I was supposed to get married.
My eyes flick to the nightstand. My phone sits there like a landmine.
I hesitate, then reach for it. The screen lights up immediately. Dozens of missed calls and messages.
Brad (15)Mom (4)Greg (2)Jenna (2)
I drop the phone like it burned me.
A choked sound escapes my throat as I sink back against the pillows. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I was supposed to wake up in a honeymoon suite this morning, sipping mimosas and giggling over wedding photos with my new husband.
Instead, I’m hiding out in my brother’s best friend’s guest room, wearing his shirt like it’s armor. The same guy who used to chase off bullies in middle school and walk me home when Greg couldn’t.
The shirt drapes over me like a dress, and for a second, I catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room. Hair a mess. Eyes puffy. Swallowed up in Jackson’s shirt.
He’s well over six feet tall. I’m 5’6” on a good day. I look like a kid playing dress-up in an adult’s closet.
Except there’s nothing playful about this.
Still, being wrapped in his shirt, in this warm, quiet room where no one’s freaking out or lying or asking anything of me, I feel… safe.
I don’t reach for the phone again. Not yet.
Instead, I slide my legs over the edge of the bed and let my bare feet settle against the cool hardwood floor. The room is quiet except for the faint ticking of a clock on the dresser and the occasional creak of the house settling. I pull Jackson’s shirt closer around me and pad toward the window.
Outside, the trees sway in the morning breeze, golden light dancing across the front lawn. It’s beautiful. Peaceful.
My stomach twists again, this time from nerves. I glance back at the nightstand. The phone is still there. Still a bomb waiting to go off. I cross the room slowly and pick it up again.
I can’t avoid it forever.
My fingers hover for a second before I swipe through the notifications. Text after text from Brad.
Please talk to me.
I swear, it’s not what it looks like.
Can we just talk?
Your parents are worried. Call them.
Ava, please.
A wave of nausea climbs up my throat.
I flip to the voicemail tab and see even more. Two from my mom. One from Greg. Several from Brad.
