Poor rebound dude.
She'll go back to the ex. Yikes.
Rebound.
The word lodges like a splinter.
My phone buzzes again. For a breathless half-second, I think it’s Bryce.
It’s my dad.
My chest tightens. I stare at his name. I can’t. Not right now.
I let it go to voicemail.
I am officially out of emotional bandwidth.
I flop back on the couch and stare at the ceiling.
“This is a disaster,” I tell the fluorescent lights.
No one argues.
Time blurs. At some point, the sky outside my window starts to darken. The offices around me quiet down. People go home to families and takeout and shows that are not about their own lives.
My phone lights up.
Bryce.
Not a call.
A text.
I sit up so fast my vision swims.
Not a good time.
That’s it.
Three and a half words. No emoji. No explanation. No “I’ll call you later” or “busy, but I’m okay.”
Just a door quietly closing.
My eyes sting.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. Right. You blew this up. What did you think was going to happen?”
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes until little stars burst behind my lids.
I should have told him I was meeting Mark. I should have looped him in before any of this. I should have shut Mark down for good the day he sent the flowers. I should have gone public the second the song dropped. I should have done a million things differently.
Now Bryce, who has been steady and solid and unfairly good to me, is on the other side of my mess, taking the hit.
He deserves better than this. Better than me.
I reach for my phone again because I don’t know what else to do with my hands, my brain, my heart.
I open our thread.
