“I’ll think about your offer.”
It’s not an agreement. It’s not a no. It’s somewhere in between, which is probably the most honest thing I’ve said all day.
I pull out my phone with numb fingers. Open a blank contact and hand it to him.
He enters his number and hands it back to me, his gaze meeting mine with intensity.“I’ll wait for your text.”
Heat flushes my cheeks, but I nod, step onto the bus, and leave him standing there on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold. Not moving.
But something on his face looks…almost content. Hopeful.
The bus pulls away with a jerk, the engine rumbling as the darkness envelopes me. I sink into the seat, my body swaying with the familiar route I’ve taken a hundred times since selling my car.
Brody Kane.
Two words that represent everything complicated about the last twelve hours.
Really, I should forget the offer. Forget the whole conversation.
But…
I think about Maya’s voice:You’re not exactly his type.
I think about showing up to the wedding events with Brody Kane as my date.
I think about my family’s faces.
And then I think:Maybe I’m tired of being overlooked.
Maybe I’m tired of playing it safe.
Maybe this is the worst idea I’ve ever had.
Maybe I’m going to do it anyway.
You’re an idiot,I tell myself.
But my thumb is already moving. Already typing.
Already making the choice my heart wants even though my brain is screaming warnings.
And hitting Send.
five
chloe
“Chloe!You’re all over the internet!”
Jessa’s voice carries from her bedroom down the short hallway, loud enough to jolt me out of the half-sleep state I’ve been in since approximately three a.m., when my brain decided to replay every mortifying moment from yesterday on an endless loop.
I pull my pillow over my head. The morning light seeps through my curtains—that pale January sunlight that’s bright but offers no warmth. My room smells like the lavender candle I forgot to blow out last night and the faint mustiness of the radiator that clanks but doesn’t quite heat properly.
“Go away. The internet can wait.”
“No, seriously, you need to see this!”
My door flies open. Jessa stands there in her pajama pants covered in little hockey pucks and her oversized University of Minnesota hockey sweatshirt, phone in hand, eyes wide, long blonde hair in a sleep-mussed bun.
