555-459-3137

Can I steal you for a minute?

This isn’t funny. Who is this?

555-459-3137

Live a little, Fitzy.

Go out the exit by the bathrooms and hang right, I’ll meet you.

“What are you doing?” Josh slings a heavy arm around me. “Why are you drinking alone?”

I leave my glass half empty. “I’m out.”

Josh lifts his wrist, as if he expects to find a watch when he never wears one. “It’s only like⁠—”

“Two in the damn morning.” I pull out my wallet and stick a fifty-dollar bill beneath the glass. “See you in the AM.”

“I thought you said it was the morning.”

“Later in the morning, you idiot.”

I wind my way through the crowd in search of the bathrooms. I still have the note clutched in my hand, and under the strobing light, I try to take a better look at the handwriting. Maybe I’m drunk out of my mind. I must be. This could be some sick joke, even though Parker isn’t someone I share about. But then I remember Nick and the fact that, when I was indeed drunk out of my mind years ago, I did tell him everything. And show him the tattoo.

If he’s behind this, I’m going to kick his ass.

I duck into the men’s room, pushing open a stall and pulling my pants partly down. The fact that I’m trying to compare the writing on a cocktail napkin against a copy of Parker’s handwriting from when we were in high school is indeed absolutely ridiculous. But I swear, the Rs look the same. The Ls could go either way.

“Fuck,” I mumble before pushing open the stall and heading back into the hallway. I head away from the music, seeing the door with the Exit sign.

And a security guard standing next to it.

“You good, champ? Front door is that way. Just an alley back here.”

I’m fucking sweating. “Can I just go get some air?”

“You need some help, man?”

“No, it’s…”

I’m about to say It’s nothing, never mind, but instead, I decide I’ll just turn around and stop making a complete ass of myself and pretend this never happened. But the moment I give the guy my back, I’ve redirected my heart forward in the direction it’s always pointed.

“It’s personal,” I finish.

Without a blink, my eyes abandon Parker’s face only because they’re drawn by something else—the number five on the Rebels jersey she wears.

My jersey.

I think of all the times in high school I imagined spotting Parker in the bleachers waving to me, smiling as she pointed to her cheek with my number painted on it like all the other guys’ girlfriends did. That never happened. Not once. When it came to Parker, my dreams were always out of reach.