Silence.
Thick. Sharp. Painful.
He drags a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t be this pissed. I know that. But I am.”
I take a step forward.
He steps back.
My heart cracks.
“I have practice,” he mutters, then adds under his breath, “ironic howyoujust became the PR disaster and dragged me with you."
Then he leaves.
No kiss. No touch. No nothing.
And somehow that hurts more than anything he could have said.
I call my best friend because my choices are scream into my desk drawer or scream to her.
She answers on the first ring.
“HELLO? YOU ARE FAMOUS AGAIN. CONGRATS OR SORRY I CAN’T TELL.”
“Shari,” I groan.
She gasps. “Oh my god, you slept with him again.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You didn’t have to! I can hear it in your guilty voice.”
I rub my temples. “You heard Mark’s song.”
“Yeah, babe, I heard. It’s beautiful and manipulative. Ten out of ten artistry. Zero out of ten emotional hygiene.”
I laugh weakly.
“Mia texted too,” Shari adds. “She says the guys think that Bryce may possibly be in love.”
“NO.”
“YES.”
“My father owns the team!”
“Cool, so you’ll have a very exciting Thanksgiving someday.”
I hang up on her.
She calls back.
"Very funny. I'll put you at the kiddie table and make you eat your vegetables." I chuckle and I hang up again.
Then I choke on a laugh-cry into my coffee mug.
***
