You already know, Rhett. You’ve known for a while. You’re just scared of what it means that you liked it.
Me:
You think this is funny.
Unknown Number:
I think you’re lying in bed right now thinking about it. Am I wrong?
I stare at the screen. My hands are shaking.
Unknown Number:
Go to sleep, golden boy. Dream about that piercing.
I’m out of bed before the screen goes dark.
The drive to Aria’s house takes twelve minutes at a normal speed. I do it in eight, windows down, jaw locked, the night air doing absolutely nothing to cool the thing burning in my chest. Fury and want and humiliation all wind together so tight I can’t separate one from the other. The lights are on in the house, but Aria’s car is gone, and Matt’s bike is gone. Just Colt’s motorcycle sits on the side of the house, catching the porch light.
The door isn’t locked—this is Cedarbrook, nothing is locked—and I push it open to find Colt on the couch with a book, of all things, reading. He looks up when the door opens.
“Rhett.”
“Is it you?” My voice is flat and tight and barely controlled.
He closes the book, setting it on the cushion beside him. “What the fuck is wrong?”
“Have you been sending me those texts all summer?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “No.”
“The piercing, Colt. They knew about the piercing. Who else?—”
“I said no.” His voice sharpens as he stands up. “Close the door and lower your voice. This isn’t just my house.”
“Aria and Matt are at The Bar.”
“I know where they are. Close the door.”
I close it, but I don’t lower my voice. “There isn’t anyone else that knows about that—nobody else was there. It was you and me behind that barn, and the next thing I know, I’m getting a text describing exactly what happened, and you want me to believe?—”
“I want you to believe me when I tell you I didn’t send it.” He crosses the room, and he’s not calm. I can see it now—the tension in his jaw, the set of his shoulders. He’s genuinely pissed as well. “You think I’ve been playing some game with you all summer? You think I need a blocked number to get under your skin? I’ve been doing that just fine to your face.”
“Then who knew?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Too bad.” He steps closer, but I hold my ground. “You drove over here at eleven o’clock at night to accuse me of something I didn’t do because it’s easier than dealing with the real reason you can’t sleep.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re not angry about the texts, Rhett. You’re angry because you liked it. You’re angry because you’ve been lying in bed all week thinking about it, and you don’t know what to do with that. So you drove over here to make it my fault.”
“I told you?—”
“You told me you’re straight. Yeah. You’ve said that. Multiple times.” His eyes are dark and direct. “Does this feel like nothing to you? Right now? Standing here.”
