“Sorry,” I said again. The crash after an adrenaline spike was no joke. Exhaustion clouded my better sense, my logical thinking, and any coherent verbalization to defend or explain myself.
“Take me back to the party. I don’t even want to be around you right now.”
I shook my head, digging deep for the words to break up with her, to end this, but all I managed was a defeated nod. The drive back was too long when I only wanted to crawl into bed and lickmy wounds, and not nearly long enough to put myself together, to finally do it, say it, mean it.
When I parked, Sasha turned in her seat and huffed. “That it? You just take me back? You don’t have anything to say to me? Apologize for how you treated me?”
HowItreated … “Sasha.” I scratched my scalp, then let my hands drop and gripped my knees. “We should break up.”
For a long moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d said that out loud or not. She didn’t reply. When I finally turned her way, she struck, slapping and pinching and growling.
“The hell we should, Calvin Winters. You don’t get to break up with me.”
“Stop it,” I shouted, moving my arms like a windmill, trying to shield myself.
“Homecoming is next week! You can’t break up with me.” With that, she opened the door of the truck as if her last words, her refusal, was enough to make it not so. “This ain’t over.”
“Yes, it is,” I yelled as she slammed the door.Fuck.
Ididn’tlikethelook Cal gave when Sasha hauled him away from the party Saturday night. He hadn’t wanted to leave with her. Envy and need churned in my gut. He’d been fine where he was, watching me, maybe hating me. Then again, when she came back not long after, the flames in her eyes brighter than the bonfire, it eased my jealousy a bit.
Had they fought? Was he okay? Would it be weird if I asked? Probably. Monday, though, I had all the reason in the world to reach for him. Err, text him. I meant text him.
Monday 7:27 AM
I don’t respond well to being badgered.
Dipshit
Not sure anyone does. What’s your point?
You seemed to be trying to get my attention.
Dipshit
Did you want me to be trying, Princess?
I’m not doing this with you. Either tell me something new or I’m making shit up and you won’t like it.
Dipshit
Actually, Princess Know It All, I like your creativity. Do your worst.
I’ve got it in text. No takebacks.
Dipshit
Fine. Fuck. I hate my football #.
31? Why? What’s wrong with it?
Dipshit
Reminds me of the song about the guy who wanted the 13 tat, but he’s a loser and got 31 instead.
You like the Offspring? Now that’s unexpected.
Dipshit
