Seconds stretched out, slow and painful.

The response took longer this time.

A painful release of air escaped my lungs.

I didn’t have a reply to that.

Not one I was brave enough to send.

So I settled for something easy.

I curled deeper into my blankets, pressing the phone against my chest. The sick feeling was still there—lingering, stubborn, refusing to loosen its grip.

But this helped.

21

BLAKE, 1998

17 years old

I woke up to the sound of something buzzing against my nightstand. At first, I thought I was dreaming.

Then I cracked my eyes open, groaned, and blindly reached for the source of the noise. My head was pounding—not from alcohol, but from sheer exhaustion.

I finally grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen.

1 New Message

I stared at it for a second, my mind sluggishly catching up.

I’d spent half the night glued to my phone, watching her cycle through guilt, playfulness, and drunken confessions. And now she wanted to get breakfast? Like she hadn’t spent last night pushing every button she could find?

I rubbed my eyes and sighed, debating whether to answer. Ignore it. Make her sit with what she did for a little longer. But the second I had that thought, my fingers were already moving.

I let out a slow breath, running a hand over my face.

This girl.

Yawning, I grabbed a hoodie off the chair and shuffled to the bathroom. I quickly brushed my teeth, still feeling half asleep. The cold splash of water against my face helped clear some of the fog, though it didn’t quite banish the exhaustion.

I headed downstairs, each step making the hardwood floor creak beneath me. Mom’s car sat parked in the driveway. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about driving, but saying no to Beverly?

That wasn’t an option.

As I reached for the keys on the kitchen counter, I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs. She was already dressed—looking like she’d just rolled out of bed but somehow still managed to look effortlessly put together.

She popped her head around the corner and gave me that wide-eyed, innocent look she always wore when she knew she had pushed things a little too far. “You ready?” she asked, bouncing on her heels. The oversized sunglasses perched on her face didn’t fool me for a second. She was hungover.

“Ready.”

She flashed a sweet smile, practically skipping out the door ahead of me. As I unlocked the car, she slumped into the seat with a dramatic sigh. “God, you’re a saint.”

I shot her a quick glance, my eyes lingering for a second longer than necessary. “I do have my moments.”

I caught the scent of her Tommy Girl perfume mixed with something artificial—probably the remnants of last night’s alcohol seeping from her pores.