Why the fuck isn’t Ziggy answering my texts?
Is she hurt?
Was there an accident?
Did she tell her dad about us and he took her phone away and she’s locked in a Heartwood Valley mansion, needing me to come rescue her?
Fuck.
I’m getting worried and I need to breathe and not panic and trust that everything will be fine.
She’s okay.
She’s okay.
There’s a legit explanation for her not texting me back.
And I will find out.
Soon.
“Better not cost us the match,” Crew mutters.
They’re passing around brown paper bags with Cadbury chocolate inside. Fletcher says it’s the real stuff from the UK, not the imitation stuff they make here in the US.
He says he got it from a senior citizen smuggling ring.
I tell him to shut up because I don’t want to know.
Haven’t touched a single bar. Not when I’m still on activity restrictions. Eating chocolate means working off chocolate. I haven’t even let myself ask for more cherry hand pies, and I actively asked Ziggy not to make more so I wouldn’t have to work them off, which was freaking hard.
But if I don’t hear from her soon, I might have two chocolate bars.
Or more.
I hope she’s okay.
I will fucking kill something if she’s not okay.
“What’s with all of the potatoes in your kitchen?” Zander asks me.
Focus. “What are you doing in my cabinets?”
“Looking for peanut butter.”
“We bring our own peanut butter when we invade someone’s house,” Silas tells him.
“How was I supposed to know there’d be chocolate that would need peanut butter?”
“There’s always chocolate,” Fletcher answers.
Silas hooks a thumb at him. “What the shitbasket said.”
Fletcher smirks. “Thank you, fuckwanker, for acknowledging that I’m always right and always do what’s best.”
Silas flips him off.
Fletcher rises and stretches like he’s about to moon Silas and doesn’t care who’s in the blast zone of having to see his ass when the door opens and Ziggy walks in.
