Page 60 of Don't Let Me Fall (Don't Let Me 1)

I also returned the twenty dollars Logan Venmoed me for the Uber I stood up.

He hasn’t texted me since. He hasn’t come over. Hasn’t tried to reach me. I’m not surprised.

I turn off the water in the shower and dry my body with the white terry-cloth towel on the rack in the bathroom.

It’s past midnight on a Thursday night––er, Friday morning, I guess. I should be sleeping. Or studying. Or binge-watching a show with Mia and Kate. Or mending things with my boyfriend. Or ending things with him. I should be doing a lot of things. Instead, I’m here. In the shower. Washing away an unproductive day while the memories of Colt Thorne cling to my skin.

Forcing my limbs to move, I wrap the towel around my chest and knot it above my breasts. I’m brushing my hair when my phone dings with an incoming text.

The words blur with my confusion, and the brush clatters to the floor, slipping from my grasp as I read the message.

Logan: I found someone else. We’re over.

I blink, convinced I’ve read the text wrong. Convinced it was sent to the wrong person. Convinced someone did something to my phone and changed Logan’s number to mess with me. To see how I would react to something so delusional, so completely ridiculous.

Because there’s no way this message is real.

Logan: I found someone else. We’re over.

I slam my phone against the counter, my insides hot with rage.

Years.

Years of building a relationship, and he ends it with less than ten words in a text message? Whatever confusion I’d been harboring inside of me boils into full-blown fury.

How dare he!

I stab at my phone, typing a response but end up dialing his number instead. He thinks we’re going to have this conversation through text messages?

Bullshit.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

Frustrated, I hang my head and press the corner of my phone against my forehead, forcing slow, controlled breaths.

Breathe, Ash. Breathe.

It’s going to be okay.

Ya know what? Screw it.

Like a bull in a China shop, I rummage through my dresser and throw on a pink tank top and shorts. Once my lady bits are covered, I grab my keys and book it to my car, dialing Logan’s number for the umpteenth time, but it goes straight to voicemail. Again.

Of course, it does.

I don’t care about my relationship with him anymore, but I’m not letting the coward get away with breaking my heart over a text.

It’s bullshit.

But what I hate even more? How I can still hear Colt’s warning when he asked if I was the only one willing to save my relationship with Logan.

I stop short in the driveway and look at my car parked out front. My car that became the catalyst for so many screwed-up emotions I can barely look at it right now.

I’m too pissed.

At Colt for fixing it in the first place.

At Logan for his stupid text message.

---