“I’m good.”
Is it really a lie? Since Mitchel left, not a damn thing’s happened. Just the usual trickle of customers in and out.
No sign of fucking Josh.
Because he’s not here. He’s in Tucson. And whoever that guy with over-styled dark brown hair asking about me yesterday was, he doesn’t have a damn thing to do with him.
Fucker hasn’t even texted me in over two weeks. He’s moved on again, and it’s time I realize I don’t have to waste anothermoment of my time on him or on the shit he put me through.
“Noah’ll be here any minute to pick me up. We wouldn’t mind dropping you by your place…” Reagan leaves the offer hanging. Girl’s way too damn perceptive.
Mitchel might have bought it when I played it off like I was just spacing out again. Like Reagan had told him I’d been doing all morning.
Reagan though? Whole different matter.
I just couldn’t tell her though. I’m being stupid. Freaking the fuck out over nothing.
Tallish guy. Dark brown hair. Wore it short and slicked over to the side.
Too much gel.
Gave me the creeps.
I reach up. Rub a hand across my throat.
The moment we’ve locked up and Reagan’s gone, I swipe open my phone. Check my messages for the hundredth time.
Nothing.
No missed calls.
No texts from withheld numbers.
Only the texts from Jesse I’d read a few hours ago.
Sunshine:I miss you, Tris. Dropping off your lunch today wasn’t enough.
Sunshine:I’m going to do some research on something that came up in my meeting with my professor, and I have to go to the library stacks and probably the special collections room to find what I need.
Sunshine:I won’t have service, and I probably won’t be home until after you. Promise I’ll make it up to you when I see you though *wink face emoji*
I’d almost dropped my damn phone when I’d read the last one, and for a solid thirty seconds, I couldn’t rip my eyes away from that one word.
Home.
Like his apartment isn’t just his butours.
Even with all the shit bouncing round my brain, reading that word from him had done things to me. Warm, swoopy, heart-skipping things that not even fucking Josh is able to stamp out.
I know I’m stupid for feeling like this over that one little word. He probably didn’t even mean it like that anyway.
Except, try telling that to those motherfucking butterflies.
I’d been in the middle of making drinks for the staff of that dentist’s office up the block that always orders from us for their weekly meetings, so I hadn’t seen Jesse’s messages until they’d sat on my phone for a good ten minutes.
By the time I texted him back, I guess he’d already gone into the library, ‘cause my response—a string of kissy face emojis, ‘cause how the hell was I supposed to be expected to think up actualwordsafter reading what he’d sent?—just sat ondelivered.
Along with the ones I sent two hours ago, when I’d finally cracked under the thought of having to walk home on my own.
