Mark has posted.
Of course he has.
I tap it.
It’s an artsy shot of a coffee mug. Same café. Same table. The caption reads:Some things are worth fighting for.
I want to throw my phone through the window.
“He is unbelievable,” I say to no one.
Comments are already flooding in.
We love a man who doesn’t give up.
Get her back, king.
Belle and Mark forever.
My skin feels too tight. I get up and pace my office, heart pounding. Every little ding from my phone is a reminder that my life is currently being narrated by strangers who think they know me.
I stop. Bryce.
I scroll to his name and hit call before I can overthink.
The phone rings.
And rings.
Voicemail.
I swallow. “Okay. He’s busy. Practice. He’s not glued to his phone like you, psycho.”
I hang up and text him instead.
Hey. Can we talk later? It’s important.
The text bubbles disappear almost instantly.
Read.
No reply.
My heart drops a couple of inches.
I stare at the screen, willing it to light up again.
Nothing.
Minutes crawl by. I try to answer emails. I try to look at scheduling. Every task floats in front of my eyes and refuses to stick. All I can see is that photo and Bryce’s name sitting in my messages without a new reply.
At some point I realize I have been refreshing the gossip feed like an idiot.
More photos now. More angles. One of them caught me mid-eye-roll at Mark, which at least is accurate, but the captions still tell the same story: star-crossed exes finding their way back.
And tucked in the comments, over and over:
So what about the hockey guy?
