And maybe… maybe it was because I didn’twantto like Ansel Barlowe.
But Idid.
And it was scary. And I think I hated myself for it.
I hadn’t meant tofall asleep…
I meant to wallow — dramatically and with purpose — under my weighted blanket, in a hoodie that still smelled like laundry detergent and regret. I shut the blinds, turned my phone to silent, and collapsed on my bed like I was starring in a very niche episode ofMillennial Meltdowns.
The kind with soft lighting and a lot of internal screaming.
When I woke up, it was dark.
My mouth was dry. My face was hot from sleeping on one sidetoo long. And my phone — traitorous thing — was lit up with notifications.
Five messages.
From Ansel Barlowe.
Because of coursehedoesn’t have my number, like a normal person. Of course it’s through Instagram, where I’m still tagged in photos from my wedding eight years ago if you scroll down far enough.
My heart started hammering before I even opened the app.
anselbarlowe
Okay. That could’ve gone better.
I’m sorry. I was an idiot.
I don’t want to make you a plot line. I just… like being around you.
I fucked up, kid. I’m so sorry.
I know I don’t deserve it… but please — give me another chance. This just might be this cowboy’s first rodeo.
I stared at the screen. Blinked.
There it was — the stupid little detail that knocked the wind out of me. That one soft sentence at the end. Like he’d been holding onto it this whole time, waiting for a moment to use it right. Like he knew it mattered. Or maybe didn’t. Maybe he was just grasping at straws, trying to make her —me— laugh.
I wasn’t sure whether to cry again or message him back.
So instead, I turned my phone face-down. Let my head fall back on the pillow.
And whispered into the dark, “You absolute dumbass.”
But my chest didn’t ache quite as much as it had before.
CHAPTER 12
It’d been three days.
Three days since I stuck my foot so far down my throat I was practically tasting sock. Three days since I watched Juniper walk out of that café like I was something sharp she'd stepped on barefoot.
Three days since I sent those messages — one dumb, one desperate, one vaguely heartfelt, and one about a goddamn napkin.
Oh, and the one where I belittled heragainby calling her a kid.
Great work, Barlowe.
