“I think he was here,” I breathe.
“I think he touched me.”
“I think I wanted him to.”
The silence answers.
Not empty.
Not comforting.
Just waiting.
By the time I make it to the living room, the bottle is empty and my vision is wearing a soft, blurry halo around every light.
My skin feels too warm.
My pulse too fast.
My breath too loud.
The locket keeps hitting my chest when I move — a cold reminder with every step.
I drop onto the sofa, hair sticking to my face, my robe slipping open far too low for decency, and something inside meunravels just enough that the alcohol pours through the cracks like gasoline.
I stare at my phone on the coffee table.
The smart thing would be to put it face-down.
Turn it off.
Throw it across the room.
The stupid thing — the thing my drunk, shattered, furious body wants — is to pick it up.
My hand shakes as I swipe the screen.
I don’t have his number saved, obviously.
That would be insane.
Except I do.
Not his name.
Not anything obvious.
Just a contact buried under an old nickname I told myself I forgot.
“Summer.”
The nickname he gave me the night we swam in the lake at midnight, shivering in the dark, laughing so hard I thought my ribs would break.
My thumb hovers over it.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper to myself.
I tap it.
