Messages from Blake. From strangers. From men I didn’t care to name.
My chest thudded to a different beat.
I reopened my text to Dane and immediately panicked. Was it too much? Too poetic? Too…me? Did I sound unhinged? Unsteady? Like the unravelling woman I am?
Still no reply from him.
God, I hate this feeling.
I blinked the thoughts away and hovered over Blake’s name. Then over the other men chasing a thrill, a night, a distraction from their own emptiness.
Then Dane’s message buzzed through:
“All in good time, Penn. I’ll show you who I am.”
My heart tripped over itself a soft, stuttering fall.
“Oh, so you’re playing mysterious now?” I typed, adding a pointless “lol,” because vulnerability terrifies me.
I opened the app’s DMs to distract myself. Scrolled. Most were pitiful attempts at seduction cheap one-liners and hollow praises. I mentally filed them underabsolutely not.
What I’m doing isn’t cheating. It’s research.
That’s the lie I keep feeding myself.
Then Blake’s messages hit me like a freight train.
Babe, you, ok?
Babe.
I’m worried it’s been ages.
Pandora.
Have I scared you?
Don’t be afraid, Pandora.
There’s a reason we met.
I want to love you.
Let me in.
The apologies came next.
Flowers.
The teddy.
Him.
Pandora, don’t break my heart.
Please.
Are you ok?
