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“Perfect,” Ethan replies, still staring at his phone. He hasn’t looked up once. Not once. Completely detached, uninterested—not in the conversation, not in me, not in anything that happened tonight.
And why would he be?
We exchange goodbyes, voices low, fading into the warm night air as we split off.
Inside my room, I close the door behind me and move toward the glass leading to the terrace. The distant sound of waves drifts in, carried by the warm, salty breeze slipping through the cracks.
I’m about to toss my purse onto the bed when my phone vibrates inside it.
Who the hell is texting me at this hour?
Frowning, I pull it out, expecting—hoping—not to be my parents again.
But when I see the name lighting up the screen, I blink.
Once.
Twice.
My hands tremble faintly as I unlock it and open the message.
Ethan: I wasn’t going to ask this, considering it’s pretty clear I was the first man you ever slept with. But after tonight, I think it’s only fair you answer the same question I did: Are you clean?
What. The. Hell.
He sleeps with whoever he wants, whenever he wants, and I’m the one being questioned? Because I kissed a guy in a bar? Something he didn’t even have the decency to confront me about in person.
Frustrated, I toss the phone onto the bed and head toward the terrace.
I barely make it halfway before I stop, spin around, and grab it again.
No.
He doesn’t get to talk to me like that.
If he wants to play games, fine. Let’s see how he handles losing.
I unlock my phone and type.
Thalia: Who is this?
Take that, Ethan Hardy.
Let’s play.
A few minutes later, his reply comes through.
Ethan: Let’s not play games, Thalia. It’s late. I’m tired.
The audacity.
He’s the one who texted first, and now he’s acting like I’m the problem?
Thalia: You didn’t look tired at the club. You actually looked ready for some action.
Why did I write that?
Why can’t I control myself when it comes to him?
