But then Jake flips his phone over, facedown on my comforter, and irritation whooshes like fire through my veins.

“Seriously?” I launch myself off the bed, fighting whiplash from the sudden emotional one-eighty. “You’re still doing that? You just said you love me, and you’re hiding texts again. How am I supposed to trust you, if you—”

“Beckett, I’m not cheating.”

“Then show me! Show me the damn text, Jake! Otherwise, I can’t—”

He exhales as he picks up his phone. Then he tosses it to me underhanded, like a softball pitch. I catch it, and my heart pounds while I stare at the darkened screen. “Really?” I didn’t think he’d actually show me.

He shrugs, looking miserable. “You’re just going to dump me again if I don’t. And there’s no point in me hiding it from you if I don’t even have you.”

I groan. “You couldn’t have thought of that a week ago?”

Another shrug. So I tap the screen to wake it. The text alert is still there.

Happy Holidays from all of us at Texas Tech. We’re really hoping you’ll grant our Christmas wish and reconsider our offer.

Chapter Twenty-One

TWENTY-ONE

The pounding in my chest feels like those dinosaur footsteps in Jurassic Park. Like my whole world is quaking. I read the text again. “What does this mean? What offer?”

Jake sighs. “You know what it means, Beck.”

What I know about Texas Tech, in three bullet points:

•  They have one of the top five college baseball teams in the country.

•  They’re a Division I school and a member of the Big 12 Conference.

•  They’ve been Jake’s second-choice college—behind Vanderbilt—since he was twelve years old.

“You got a scholarship? That’s great!” I smile so wide it hurts. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

But he isn’t smiling.

“Jake?” And suddenly the rest of it sinks in. “Reconsider. Why would you need to reconsider?”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and blinks at me.

“You turned it down.” My hand clenches around his phone. “Why on earth would you do that?” And he’d been hiding texts from me for a couple of weeks before we broke up, which means he turned it down at least three weeks ago.

He holds his hand out for his phone, before I can crush it, and I almost throw it at him. “Say something, Jake! Baseball is all you ever talk about! This is your dream! Why would you turn that down?”

“Because I’m staying here.” He pries the phone from my grip and slides it into his back pocket.

“The hell you are.”

“Lubbock is too far away. Vanderbilt would be one thing. Or even Knoxville. But Texas Tech—”

“Bullshit. It’s your number two pick.”

“Yes, but you’re my number one pick.” He reaches for me, and I backpedal, horrified by this new understanding.

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t say that.” I back farther away, as if I can distance myself from this guilt. Over something I didn’t even know about. “You are not staying here for me. Do your parents know you turned it down?”