Page 11 of Exes That Puck
I pick up the phone and scroll to his contact. My thumb hovers over his name, heart hammering against my ribs. What would I say? That I’ve been thinking about him nonstop? That we seriously can’t do this because we’re not good together?
The truth sits in my throat like a stone.
I start typing.You shouldn’t have kissed me.
Then I delete it.
Type,why did you follow me out?
Delete.
Type,This sucks.
Delete.
Each attempt feels more pathetic than the last. Like I’m begging for scraps of attention from someone who’s already moved on.
Maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I lock the phone and toss it back onto the nightstand, but my eyes keep drifting to it. Waiting for the screen to light up. Waiting for proof that I’m not alone in this spiral.
The room grows dark around me. I don’t bother turning on the lights. The darkness feels appropriate—matches the weight in my chest, the confusion tangled in my thoughts.
I should text him. Or I should delete his number and force myself to move on. The middle ground is torture, this liminal space where I’m neither healing nor reconnecting. Just suspended in uncertainty.
I pick up my phone one more time, resolved to make a decision. Any decision.
His name glows on the screen, and my finger hovers over the call button. What would happen if I just called? If I bypassed the careful construction of text messages and just... talked to him?
But before I can lose my nerve, my phone buzzes in my hand.
The screen lights up.
Zeke.
4
I’ve been holding my phone for so long the screen’s gone black three times. Each time I unlock it, the same empty thread stares back at me. Her name at the top. My messages underneath.
You make it home okay?
You okay?
Both marked delivered. Both ignored.
I refresh the conversation for the hundredth time since last night, like maybe the app glitched and her reply’s just hiding somewhere. Nothing. The silence sits heavier than any fight we’ve ever had, and we’ve had some brutal ones.
She always caves first. Always. Even when she’s pissed, even when she swears she’s done, she’ll send me something. A meme. A song. Some excuse to break the ice so we can pretend the fight never happened.
But this isn’t a fight. This is worse.
This is her pretending I don’t exist.
I lock my phone and toss it on my nightstand, but my hand finds it again thirty seconds later. The cycle repeats. Check. Nothing. Lock. Wait. Check again.
Dylan’s alarm goes off in the next room, followed by the sound of him stumbling around, probably looking for clean clothes. The kid’s a mess in the mornings, but at least he sleeps. I haven’t managed more than an hour at a time since Saturday.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Tongue out, beer dripping down her chest, laughing like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Then Lola’s mouth on hers, and the way Kara’s eyes went wide. Not into it. Surprised. Uncomfortable.
