Or else I’ll find you and drag you here myself.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
For a second, everything stops, and I stand in the middle of the living room, phone in hand, motionless, and holding my breath.
Then, everything hits me all at once. My stomach slams down at the same time my heart jolts, the combination sending me stepping backward and tripping onto the couch, landing ass-first. The phone slips in my shaking, sweat-slicked hands, and I grip it tighter, my eyes still glued to the messages.
They found me. My parents found me.
I try to swipe out of the message, but my finger is too slippery—I waste a precious second to wipe my right hand on the couch before succeeding.
I go to delete the thread from my inbox. There’s a block option, and I hit that instead. The message disappears, but the damage is done. There’s no undoing anything.
I clear my profile. Not that it matters, since they've already seen it.
Then I go to the menu and hit the first red button I see. Maybe it logs me out, I don't know. And for good measure, I delete the whole app.
I thought I was doing so well.
I thought I was finally free, andnow this.
Tension builds in my core, threatening to rise in my throat and spill out. I toss my phone across the couch and bury my face in my hands, trying to get my breathing under control.
In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. And repeat.
It doesn’t work. All that does is help me see somewhat clearly again, and the first thing that hits my eyeballs is a blurry Ian entering the living room.
“Callum, babe, what’s wrong?” He rushes over and slings an arm around my shoulders, concern darkening his expression. He’s changed into my old hoodie, which is far too big on him, and the fabric bunches up around his elbows.
The cozy sight fails to provide its usual comfort.
“It’s my parents,” I say. Short, simple, and still painful. “They found my profile and messaged me.”
“How bad is it?”
“My mom asked me where I am and told me to come home.” I leave out the part where she laced her typical malice through the texts—I don’t even know how I’d explain it to him.
He lets out a slow breath and tightens his grip around me, and I lean my head onto his. “How shaken are you?”
“I deleted everything.”
“Okay, let’s talk through it,” Ian starts, and I groan, resting my face in my palms.
“You have a bus to catch,” I say. If I make him late because of my personal issues, I don’t think I could forgive myself.
“So what? We don’t have a game today, and Nick’s gonna be late, too.” He pulls out his phone and sends a text. “There. I told them something came up. Now I can focus on you.” With my eyes covered, I can only feel Ian placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I lift my head and give him a weak, appreciative smile. “Thanks.”
“Your mom asked where you were, your profile was private, and all you had in your bio was the abbreviation for Wisconsin, and ‘WMU.’”
“Right.”
“There’s gotta be at least fifty WMUs in the country. Think of all the states that start with M and have a western part. Western Michigan, Montana, Maine, Missouri, whatever. They might even think the W stands for Wisconsin. You’re gonna be okay.”
I press harder into Ian, and he trails off, leaning back so my head falls into his lap.
“That makes sense. It’s, like, I’m fine,” I say, trying and failing to convince myself.
