It takes everything I have. Every ounce of willpower I've ever possessed. But I do it. I delete it without watching the rest, without seeing Devon come, without hearing whatever sounds he makes when he tips over the edge.
The screen goes blank.
I sit there, breathing hard, cock still straining against my zipper, hands shaking.
I can't keep doing this. I can't keep talking to him online, pretending to be someone else, while simultaneously working with him in person and trying not to combust every time he looks at me.
I have to tell him.
I have to tell him it's me before this goes any further. Before he sends something else. Before I do something I can't take back.
My phone feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as I pick it up again.
I open the message thread and type:
Need_Tailor_Chicago:Hey, so. I've been thinking… Are you free for drinks tonight?
My thumb hovers over send. This is either the most responsible or the dumbest I’ve ever been. I hit send, then drop my phone on the passenger seat, grip the steering wheel with both hands, and stare straight ahead at the gray concrete wall of the parking structure.
What the fuck did I just do?
CHAPTER 16
DEVON
"TELL ME THE truth." I slam my palm on the bar top, making the bartender—a guy about my age with a man-bun—jump. "Am I ugly?"
He blinks at me. "What?"
"Ugly. Am I? Scale of one to ten, one being 'would rather gouge my eyes out' and ten being 'would sell a kidney to hit that.' Be honest. I can take it."
Man-Bun looks around like he's searching for backup. There is none. It's a Tuesday night, and this bar is dead, which is why I chose it.
"You're, uh..." He squints at me. "You're fine?"
"Fine?" I clutch my chest. "Fine? That's the most devastating thing anyone's ever said to me. Fine is what you call room-temperature water. Fine is beige. Fine is—"
"Dude, I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to tell me I'm a solid eight! Nine on a good hair day!" I gesture at my head. "This is a good hair day, by the way.Hello?I used product."
He's backing away slowly now, which is fair. I know I’m acting unhinged. I am unhinged. I've now been stood up twice in one week, and my ego is in critical condition.
"Look." He slides a glass toward me. Whiskey, neat. "This one's on the house. You seem like you're going through something."
I stare at the free pity drink.
This is it. This is rock bottom. I'm so pathetic strangers are giving me charity alcohol.
"Oh my god." I drop my forehead onto the bar. "I'm a basket case. This is worse than the time I got dumped via Instagram story."
"That happened?"
"He posted a picture with his new boyfriend. Captioned it 'upgrade.' I found out when my mom sent me a screenshot asking if I was okay."
Man-Bun winces. "Ouch. That's rough."
"My life is rough. My life is a series of increasingly humiliating romantic failures, and I'm starting to think the universe is trying to tell me something." I lift my head, grab the whiskey, and take a long sip. "Maybe I'm meant to be celibate. Maybe I should get cats. Do you think I'm a cat person?"
