My phone buzzes again before I even lock the screen.
Scarlett: Good. I'm proud of you for making your own decision.
I read the message three times. Then I set my phone beside me and lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Downstairs, everything sounds exactly the way it always has.
I don't.
SIX
TINY
I’m lyingon my couch when my phone buzzes on my chest. I don’t move right away. Moving sounds like a terrible idea and breathing already feels like work. My head is stuffed, my throat is raw, and every muscle in my body aches. I’ve got a blanket tangled around one leg, a half-empty bottle of water on the floor beside the couch, and a bowl of soup on the coffee table that Tessa bullied Cole into dropping off a few hours ago even though I told her I was fine. I am not fine.
My phone buzzes again. I crack one eye open and lift it off my chest, expecting another message from the old lady group chat telling me to hydrate, take my meds, or stop being dramatic. Instead, Scarlett’s name lights up the screen.
Scarlett: I asked Lucy if I could give you her number.
Everything in me goes still. My nose is still clogged, my body still aches, but for one second none of that matters. Lucy, the girl from the clinic with the pretty hair and those hazel-greeneyes I haven’t been able to get out of my damn head since yesterday.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. “Son of a bitch,” I mutter, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead while the room spins. My phone buzzes again before I can steady myself.
Scarlett: She said yes by the way
Me: She’s sure?
Scarlett: I asked twice.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Scarlett: Don’t be weird.
I scowl at the phone.
Me: I’m never weird.
Scarlett: Tiny.
Me: Fine. I’ll be normal.
Scarlett: You don’t know how to be normal. Just don’t scare the poor girl.
She sends Lucy’s number before I can come up with something mature. I save it in my contacts and just sit there staring at her name. Lucy Parker.
I should text her. That’s the normal thing to do. A woman says yes to giving me her number, and I text her. Except my hands suddenly feel too big. These same hands that rebuild engines and take men to the ground and hold crying kids at club barbecues have never made me nervous before. Now I’m tryingto figure out what to say to a girl who blushes when she smiles and probably thinks I’m insane.
I open a new message. Close it, then open it again.
Hey, it’s Tiny.Too boring.
Hey, Lucy. This is Tiny from the clinic.Still boring. Also, I doubt she’s met another man named Tiny in the last twenty-four hours.
Hey, sweetheart.Absolutely not. Too much. Too fast.
I toss the phone onto the cushion beside me and drag both hands down my face, then immediately regret it because my skin feels like sandpaper. “Get it together,” I mutter to my empty living room. “It’s a text message, not a marriage proposal.”
Tessa: DID YOU TEXT HER YET?
