Page 17 of Exes That Puck
This is better. This is healthier.
But as the evening stretches on and the store grows quieter, the silence starts to feel heavy. In the spaces between customers, when there’s nothing to organize and no one to help, my thoughts inevitably drift.
Is he wondering why I’m not responding? Has he tried to call and realized he’s blocked? Or has he moved on?
The last thought stings more than I expect.
I shake my head, focusing on organizing things behind the counter. This is exactly what Payton was talking about. The obsessive thinking, the need to know where I stand in his mind at every moment. It’s exhausting.
And it has to stop.
By nine-thirty, the store is empty except for us workers. I start my closing routine by turning off displays, counting the register, locking the front door. The familiar tasks ground me, remind me that life exists outside of text messages and relationship drama.
I’m gathering my things when I hear a knock on the glass door. We’re closed, but sometimes people are desperate for books and try anyway. I look up, ready to point to the hours sign, and my heart stops.
Zeke stands there, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Even through the glass, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. The space between us feels charged, electric, like the air before a storm.
Then he moves to the side entrance, the one that leads to the parking lot. Waiting.
My hands shake as I finish locking up. I could slip out the back exit, avoid him entirely. Text Payton for a ride. Hide until he gives up and leaves.
But that would just delay the inevitable.
I push through the side door, purse slung over my shoulder. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and approaching winter. Zeke straightens when he sees me, stepping away from his truck.
“So you’re blocking me now?” His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the edge underneath. “I thought we agreed to end on good terms.”
Every hair on my body stands to attention. He knows. Of course he knows.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder, trying to buy time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp. “Don’t lie to me, Kare. My messages aren’t going through. Your number’s not connecting calls.” His eyes search my face. “Why did you block me?”
The nickname makes my chest tighten, and hearing it now feels like a key turning in a lock I thought I’d sealed shut.
“I—” I start, then stop. There’s no point denying it. “I only did it today.”
He nods slowly. “I know, but why?”
The question is simple, but the answer is anything but. How do I explain that blocking him felt like the only way to save myself? That every text from him sets me back weeks in trying to move on? That I’m tired of being caught in this cycle of breaking up and getting back together?
“Because we’re broken up,” I say finally. “That’s what broken up means.”
6
“Is it?” I take a step closer, and she shifts slightly but doesn’t back away. “Because Saturday night felt pretty fucking together to me.”
Her jaw tightens. “That was a mistake.”
“Was it? Because you didn’t seem to think so when you were kissing me back.”
“I was drunk—”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out harder than I intended. “You had maybe two drinks. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, and I recognize the gesture. Kara building walls, preparing for battle. But her eyes look tired, like she’s already exhausted by this conversation before it’s even started.
