Page 26 of Wrecked Rose

Max

There’s no fucking way I’m going to the party at Beau and Griff’s tonight. No. Fucking. Way.

Daph:Max, are you okay? Are you sure you don’t want to come and hang out with me?

Nope, I can’t handle being anywhere near Griff right now. Not after how we left things earlier. I haven’t had a chance to simmer down yet. Fuck all that noise. I don’t need him. I don’t want him. Not like this.

Me:I’m good. Promise.

Lies. Just tell a few more lies.

Daph:You don’t want to be around people tonight, huh?

Me:Nope.

Daph:Why not?

Me:You’re one to talk. You hardly want to be there yourself.

Daph:That’s not fair. We’re talking about you right now.

Daph:Max, I’m worried.

Daph:You were acting… almost angry by the end of the day.

Daph:Did something happen that I don’t know about?

Daphne is getting better and better at picking up on the fine nuances of my behavior. She knows something is up, for sure. But she’s not completely overbearing, so she hasn’t outright asked what the fuck is wrong with me. If it were Scarlett or Lyla, they’d probably have already asked.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Max?

The answer is I can’t handle watching Griff’s game with all those girls. I don’t know how I’d stomach it. Because even when I’d been fired up and angry earlier about his dumbass friend, that pull toward Griff had still been present. I want to be the magnet stuck to all that steel.

And suddenly, I feel really badly about bailing on Daphne for the party. She’s trying so hard to be there for me, and I’m not letting her.

Me:I’m not feeling the party scene tonight. Sorry.

Me:Want to grab dinner with me instead before you go over?

Me:My treat.

Me:You can bring Micah even though he eats enough for three.

Daph:Okay … meet you at the diner at six?

Me:Yep.

Daph:Max? Eventually you’re going to need someone to listen.

Daph:I’ll be here.

Me:Thanks. I mean it.

* * *

I’m midway through a burger at the diner in town when Daphne glances up from her phone with a quick “Uh-oh” and then looks back down. Her thumbs move quickly over the keyboard on her phone. Once she fires off a reply, she sets the phone next to her plate. She gives a mildly disgusted look at her grilled ham and cheese—which I happen to know is her favorite thing to eat here—and pushes it away from her.

I watch from across the booth as Micah puts his hand on the base of the back of her neck, gently squeezing. “What?”

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