Page 31 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

My chest twinges in pain as I glance behind me, confirming I’m still very much alone. After rubbing at the sore spot between my breasts, I sigh and untwist the polka-dotted bag holding soft and squishy, overly processed white bread as the memories of us assault me.

No toasting, I remind myself, my mouth curving up with amusement. Milo’s gritty voice growling the instructions for the perfect, most simple sandwich on the planet echoes through my mind.

“And don’t you dare cut off the crust,” he ordered.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the best part.”

I shake off the thought, search for a plate and knife in the dark cabinets, and slather some gooey goodness onto the bread. A bit of the peanut butter gets on my thumb, and I lick it off, staring at the sandwich for a few long seconds. Finally, I take a giant bite of Milo’s apology in its simplest form.

And it’s exactly what this is. An apology for being an ass. A peace offering after overstepping his bounds. It’s his ever-backward way of being thoughtful. And even though I’m still hurt, I do appreciate it. Probably more than I should.

I swear, I’m like the pathetic nerd in high school who’s drooling over the quarterback, feeling giddy when asked to clean his jockstrap or something.

Do quarterbacks still wear those?

My phone dings with an incoming text, and I set the sandwich back onto the white ceramic plate, grateful for the distraction. Digging it out of my pocket, I tilt my head to one side as I take in the unknown number.

555-434-2971: Hey, babe. Miss me?

I stare at the random text for a solid thirty seconds, trying to decipher who sent it. No one has this number. Or at least, no one who would refer to me asbabe. I changed my number after Milo and I broke up. I wanted a fresh start––neededit––and the easiest way to leave my past behind me was to remove myself fromEmand all the mistakes she’d made.

So, who is this, and how did they get my new number?

I shove away the feeling of opening Pandora’s Box, my curiosity getting the best of me as I type my response.

Me: Who is this?

555-434-2971: Why, it’s your Baby Daddy, of course. Wanna explain why I had to hear about it through the grapevine?

Shit.

Marty.

As if it contains the devil himself, my phone slips through my fingers and crashes to the ground. The clatter is like a blow horn, making me jump a few inches into the air as I push my long hair away from my face and cover my mouth. Adrenaline, fear, and absolute rage pulse through me, but I’m still lost. Still confused. Still so damn helpless.

How did he get my number?

How did he find out about Penny?

It doesn’t make sense. I haven’t gone out. I haven’t talked to anyone from my old life. I’ve been hiding away––wasting away––behind closed doors as soon as I found out I was pregnant. The only person who knows I was involved with Marty is Dove, but there’s no way she would’ve told him.

She wouldn’t.

Forcing myself to pick my phone up, I dial Dove’s number and press it to my ear.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me,” I breathe out. The barstool’s legs scrape against the hardwood floor as I pull it out from beneath the kitchen island and collapse onto it.

I think I’m going to be sick.

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