He ignores me. “Club night. Riot’s waiting. I even brought back up glitter in case your sparkle has suffered from emotional damage.”
I roll to one side, squinting at him through one eye. “That’s rich coming from someone who ugly cried into my throw blanket over Colton.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” I stretch, bones cracking, body aching in thatI’ve been horizontal for too longkind of way. “Because this feels suspiciously like karma.”
Micah folds his arms, unimpressed. “You made me go out when I didn’t want to. And you were right. So now it’s your turn. I am the ghost of breakups past, and I amhauntingyou into a tight shirt and emotionally reckless behavior.”
I blink at him. “Did you rehearse that?”
He smirks. “A little.”
I sigh and flop back onto the bed. “Fine. But I swear to God, if anyone tries to play DJ Sad Vibes tonight, I will set the sound systemon fire.”
“Deal,” he says, already yanking open my closet like he lives here. “Now pick an outfit. Something that screamsI’m hot as fuck, but you can’t touch me.”
I groan again, but the corner of my mouth twitches.
Because it’s Micah. And if anyone can drag me back from the edge with glitter and attitude, it’s him.
EIGHTEEN
SILAS
Later that night
My apartment is really tooquiet tonight. It’s the sort of silence that settles into your bones and makes your ears ring with everything you’re trying not to think about.
I sit on the edge of the couch, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the TV on with the volume low enough to be nothing but background noise. I haven’t even looked at the screen in over twenty minutes.
All I can think about is Luke. Or, more accurately, the lack of Luke today at practice. Tyrell said he was sick, but there was something about the way he said it that made me feel like he was holding something back. Not that I can push.
Coach Harris didn’t say anything, just grunted when I asked if anyone had called out sick to him. But I saw the twitch of his brow; he noticed Luke missing, too.
Everyone did. He’s like a light in the dark, you know, when it’s not on.
The offensive line looked off-balance. The passes and playskept falling apart during the scrimmage. And I was no help, because I couldn’t even fucking focus.
Every play, pass, route—my mind was somewhere else. Wondering if he really was okay, or if maybe he was avoiding me after the last week from hell. And ultimately wondering if maybe I should have reached out to him after practice.
I finish the whiskey and set the glass down too hard on the side table, causing the ice to click against the side. Then I open my phone and scroll to the Prism app. I could text him on his phone, with his number; I have it. But the app just feels less personal, and he made it clear personal was the last thing he was wanting from me.
His messages are at the top, and I click into his profile. The picture on his profile grins back at me like a mischievous gremlin, his shirt tugged up enough to show off his abs. A single line of text under it, ‘Open to hook-ups, let's not do serious.’ The one thing that drew me to him in the first place now makes me feel slightly possessive and jealous.
He is probably hooking up with people on here still. Not that it is my business. We aren’t anything.
Still, I tap on the message box, type a single word out:
Me: Hey
Then I stare at it for a full minute before deleting it.
Then type again…
Me: You good?
Backspace.
