Page 22 of Ruthless Rose

Max:It’s at Micah’s.

Me:Yep. Could have called that one.

Me:No, thanks.

Scarlett:His parents aren’t home.

Yep, that makes sense if that’s who he was talking to on the phone. Absentee parents at their finest, I guess. I wonder how many games they’ve missed this year. Or maybe the easier question to ask is how many they’ve made an appearance at.

Scarlett:Xander and I just people watch mostly.

Scarlett:It’s not even about the game or the party, really.

Max:Right. It’s just hanging out with us.

Scarlett:Besides, I need someone to babysit Max. He’s always wandering off.

Max: Hush, woman. D, it’d be more fun with you there.

With a huff and what must be an odd wish to inflict self-torture, I open up my Instagram app. My eyes narrow on the screen as I pull up Micah’s account. Yep, there he is, surrounded by all the girls who were in on teasing me earlier today.

I chew on my lip as I gaze at the image way longer than necessary. But still, he’s so freaking hot, even with that arrogant smile. If I was more confident, I’d surprise him by kissing it right off of his sexy lips. My hand shaking, I press my fingers to my mouth and wonder what that would actually be like.

Probably embarrassing as hell, actually, as I’d have no idea what I was doing.

Me:Whatever. You’ve got Xander glued to you now. You don’t even need me.

Scarlett:But, see? That’s why Max needs you, Daph!

Scarlett:And I will ALWAYS need you.

Me:Maybe next time.

Max:Okay. But you’re missing out.

Scarlett:I’m holding you to it. Next time, you hear me?

I glance down again at the photo of Micah standing tall in his uniform, front and center in the sea of red-and-black cheer uniforms. Are my friends right? Am I missing out? What are you going to do here at home, Daphne? What will it be—read your book or watch one of the Star Wars movies for the trillionth time? No, wait, you’re probably watching the newest episode of The Mandalorian. You love the Child. He looks just like a baby Yoda.

I swear, I’m my own worst enemy. I can take potshots at myself just as well as Alora can.

My eyes blur with tears I refuse to let fall. Staring down at my hands, I try to distract myself, picking at my nails which are bare and cut short. True, it’s mostly because I can’t be bothered to grow them out, but it’s just another way I’m nothing like Alora or Farrah or any of the other girls with perfectly manicured nails who Micah hooks up with on a regular basis. Jealousy streaks through me, unbidden. I groan, rolling over on my bed, and bury my face in my pillow.

What would Micah think if I were to show up at his house tonight? He’d probably assume I was crazy. And then he and those cheer bitches would have a good laugh at my expense.

Looking down at myself, I tick off all the things that make me wholly unsuitable for someone like Micah. I don’t like parties. Or football. I don’t have curves like the girls he seems to gravitate toward. I like to read—like, a lot. I actually enjoy doing my homework and getting good grades. I wear Star Wars T-shirts to bed.

A guy like Micah wouldn’t look twice. Shouldn’t look twice.

Funny how I’ve gone from being used to him overlooking me and not seeing me at all—and being mostly fine with it—to being sad because I’m not what he wants, no matter how much he likes to toy with me.

I must be ten kinds of stupid.

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