CHANCE
Not the bowl. Us.
The words slam into me. I collapse onto the bed, my phone clutched too tightly in my hand. My breathing slows, but my heart pounds like it’s trying to fight its way out of my ribcage.
Us.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. He makes it sound so simple, like it’s something you can just name and make real.
But what if it’s already ruined?
ME
There is no us. There’s you being an ass and me finally doing something about it.
CHANCE
There’s always been an us, Squirt.
It took what he did to finally understand everything he was trying to tell me when he pinned me under him in that wagon.
The pain he had to have felt to push him to that point. But more than the words he said were the ones he didn’t—and how I’m choking back the same ones.
Because a part of me is terrified to do the same. Big terrified. The kind of terrified I’d rather cut my own tongue out than admit.
ME
Call me Squirt again, and I’ll find something bigger than a bowl to smash.
CHANCE
Can we talk?
ME
Talk all you want, soldier boy. I’ve never been anti-imaginary friend.
CHANCE
I want to talk to my real one.
The phone slips in my hand, but I manage to catch it before it falls.
His real one.
My heart surges into my throat, the ache in my chest only gets worse, and I press the heel of my hand to my sternum, trying to ease the throb.
Don’t be the next thing I have to get over, Chance.
ME
Room 208. Knock first, he’s probably balls-deep in your sister.
It’s a cheap shot. I know it, and so does he. The flicker of guilt is immediate, but I push it down, stuffing it deep.
CHANCE
I’ll let that slide.
