I power on my phone, shuffling down the narrow aisle. My backpack digs into my shoulders, making it harder to move. By the time I cross into the jet bridge, the screen lights up, buzzing with a series of incoming messages.
Mom:Dad and I will be heading home from Paris tomorrow. So sorry we missed you.
Donovan:You’re flying over Tennessee, and I’m here trying to pretend I don’t miss you like hell already.
Ansel:Hey, my sexy slay muffin. Haven’t heard from you all week. I can't wait until you come home tonight. We are going to have dinner and driiiiiiinks, bitch!!!
I tap out a quick “miss you” to Mom and reply with “can't wait” to Ansel.
But Donovan’s message?
I just stare at it.
Should I really be getting this much of a serotonin boost… from a text that says he misses me? From the man I lost because stubbornness got in the way? From the man, I’m recklessly relearning how to love again. No slow dance, just a full-on plunge?
God, I’m a hot mess. And worse? I don’t think I want to stop being one when it comes to him.
Me:Just landed and missing you something fierce right now.
Me:[Sends picture]
I snap a quick photo outside the airport while I wait for my ride and hit send. Then immediately grimace. I look like shit. I shouldn’t have sent it.
It’s a thirty-minute drive from the airport to my apartment. Sitting in the back of the rideshare, I check my phone for the fiftieth time on the drive home, convinced I missed his reply somehow.
I feel like an idiot. Did I completely misread what this is? Maybe he just wants a hookup every few weeks.
Confusion settles over me like fog. I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes as the city speeds past.
Once I'm home, I kick off my shoes and slide them onto the rack by the door. I hang my keys on the hook and twist the deadbolt on the door. The soft click sounds final somehow.
Grabbing the small stack of mail from the counter, I head toward my bedroom, flipping through it.
Junk. All of it. Two weeks away and nothing but junk mail. The clock reads just shy of 3 p.m. Might as well shower and nap.
One of my favorite things about the apartment Ansel and I share is the split floor plan. There are two bedrooms, one on each side. The living room is the epicenter of our chaos, where our personalities crash, clash, and somehow still fit. But the bedrooms? Completely different worlds.
Ansel’s is sunshine, florals, and glittered chaos.
Mine?
Pastel goth—pinks and purples drape everything, but the centerpiece is skulls, coffins, and curated morbidity.
Very edgy. Very girly. I guess growing up around death does that to you.
I turn on the shower and let the steam rise while I wash my face, slowly slipping into the warmth. Once inside, I lather soap over my skin, rinse off the grime of the day, and work shampoo into my hair, letting the deep conditioner sit while my thoughts drift. Last night replays in flashes.
The way Donovan lifted me onto the car—commanding. His tongue, slow and deliberate.
My breath catches at the memory of his fingers inside me, and my body responds instantly.
My left hand skims over my breasts, teasing my nipples. Heat blooms low in my belly.
I quickly rinse the conditioner from my hair, hastily turn off the shower, and grab my towel, anger flowing through me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He hasn’t texted since this morning. And I’m in here getting myself off to the memory of him like a fool. I fall back on my bed, throwing my arm over my eyes with a sigh.
