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“Check it, and then I’m taking it away from you.”
Nodding, knowing this is for the best, I do as he says, and click on Mason’s and my text thread.
It takes a second for the world to stop spinning long enough for me to focus and piece together his message.
My body sways, and I clutch the phone tighter, like it’s somehow the only thing holding me up.
MASE FACE
I know today sucks. But this is your day too, always has been, and always will be. And for that, I still love today. Because it means you exist.
Blinking, I try to make sense of it, but things like…thinking are really hard right now. I don’t want to do this. I want to dance.
Another message comes in.
Tell Gabe I’ll kill him if anything happens to you tonight
There’s a scoff, and then Gabe’s ripping the phone out of my hand, thumbing out a response. He pauses, glances to me, and arches a brow. “Anything you wanna say?”
“Nope!” I say with a pop, heaving myself to a stand. It takes me a moment to find my balance, but once I’ve got it back, I find myself making my way toward the dance floor, weaving through the swaying, undulating bodies.
Somewhere in the middle—just as the song reaches its peek—crushed between couples grinding on each other, I tilt my head back, and stare up at the multi-colored lights bisecting the room, and grin drunkenly, stupidly.
Cheers, sis.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
I toss and turn for hours, until I finally give up, and throw the covers off.
A quick glance at my phone shows it’s just after three in the morning.
No new messages, but I pull up my most recent conversation.
Jeremy The Wicked ??
Jer Bear cant come 2 the phone right now
But dont worry boo thang, i got him ??
And just below that, there’s a blurry, awkwardly angled pic of what looks to be Jeremy passed out, head slumped against what I imagine is Gabe’s shoulder. I can barely even make out his face, but his hair stands out glaringly white against the shadows, lending no doubt as to who it is.
Time-stamped: 11:20
I squint, bringing the phone closer.
It looks like there’s a seatbelt. Didn’t notice that earlier.
My thumbs hover over the screen, just like earlier, as I once again debate if I should respond to that.
I close my eyes, shake my head, and mutter, “Just let it go.”
Easier said than done…
Locking the phone, I toss it on the mattress, and climb to a stand. I throw on a pair of sweats, but forgo a shirt, and quietly crack the door open to slip into the hall.
Being mindful of the creaky spots in the floor, I pad my way to the door leading downstairs, our only exit and entrance all in one, save for the fire escape connected to the primary bedroom: aka Waylon’s room.
Downstairs, it’s dark. Quiet.
