It could be a new, sad drinking game. Take a drink wherever you end up, and then just get sauced because what’s a better way to handle it?

Sighing, I opened my laptop and clicked on the classifieds.

Five job applications filled out later, I couldn’t deny as I was getting ready for bed. I was hurt. I thought one of my friends would’ve texted—Reese at least. My phone was still blank when I climbed into bed. I turned it off, then on again, just making sure, but it showed the same thing: no incoming texts or calls, and it had worked earlier with Loser Ex, so it was working.

Still. Because I never liked to admit defeat, I texted Reese.

Me: No words? Are you mad at me?

I waited, and five minutes went by. Ten. I brushed a tear away at the twenty-minute mark.

One hour later, I had my answer.

He wasn’t going to respond.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I fell out of bed, no joke.

I’d been starting to wake up. I was stretching and scooting to the end of the bed. Then BANG, BANG, BANG, and off I fell.

Hello, floor.

I winced, rubbing my elbow. That hurt, but then the banging on my door started again.

“You took my phone!” a voice yelled.

That was Reese and, oh shit—had I?

I hurried to the front door. My neighbors were hardcore Thunder fans. If they were home, they would recognize Reese’s voice. They watched every one of his interviews on ESPN. I knew, because I could hear them blasting them from their computer at all hours of the day. I used to think I was dedicated, but they put me to shame.

Flinging open the door, I grabbed him. “Stop talking.”

He was alone.

He was glaring, and he was pissed. Really pissed. His jaw was doing the clenching thing too.

“What?”

“You fucking left, that’s what!”

Oh. He did care. I bit my lip to stop a grin from showing.

“I texted you what happened.”

“Yeah.” He scoffed, starting to go through my apartment. Finding my bedroom, he went in and began pulling items out of my bag. I hadn’t unpacked, like, at all. I still had on the clothes I’d left camp in. I just hadn’t had it in me to take off his shirt, and he noticed, his scowl lessening, but then he pulled out a pair of shorts I hadn’t realized I’d grabbed.

“A-ha.” He pulled his phone out of the pocket and tried to turn it on. “It’s dead.”

Crap. I felt a pounding behind my temples and rubbed there. “Sorry. It must’ve been with the pile of my clothes. I was packing in a hurry.” And I was slightly hysterical at the time. “Oops.”