Page 55 of Lethal in Pink

The message chain is already a mess of unprompted enthusiasm:

Brittany: Hey you! I was thinking about last time and wondering if you wanted to grab lunch today? I’m free after 3. Let me know!

Brittany: Or dinner! Dinner works too. Whatever you’re feeling. Just want to see you :)

Brittany: I could even bring food to your place so you don't have to leave? I made cinnamon rolls! Most guys say I'm wife material for it because they taste so good haha 😇

My dick gives up entirely. One emoji and the physical impulse deflates like a punctured balloon.

I drop the phone onto my chest and stare up at the blank ceiling.

Buzz.

Brittany: Unless you're busy with school stuff? I promise I'll be super quiet if you need to study, I can just sit on your bed and keep you company 🥺 You won’t even know I’m there!

A tight, cold knot forms at the base of my throat. The desperate, performative flexibility makes my stomach turn. It isn't intellect or disgust at her, exactly. It’s the sour, familiar taste of self-loathing for letting this go on long enough that she thinks bending herself into whatever shape I want will make me like her.

I sit up. The sheets pool around my hips, the morning heat already sticking to the small of my back. I drag both palms down my face, hard, feeling the rough scrape of overnight stubble against my hands.

I open the chat and start typing. No fluff. No sweetening the pill.

Me: Brittany. Don't do that.

The three little gray dots appear instantly. She was literally staring at her screen waiting for my name to pop up.

Brittany: Do what?? I was just offering!! I just feel like we had such a cool connection and I really like hanging out with you. I'm not asking for a label or anything crazy!!

Brittany: Did I do something wrong? You've been so cold the last few weeks…did I make you mad? I can fix whatever it was, just tell me!

I wince.

God, it’s painful to read.

Part of me wants to just block the number, throw the phone in the closet, and pretend I never opened the app. It would be easier. It would save me from having to play executioner before I’ve even had a glass of water.

But ghosting a girl who is practically begging for scraps is a special kind of cowardice, and as much of a jaded asshole as I can be, I’m not that much of a piece of shit.

I lean my elbows on my knees and type out the truth, as blunt and unvarnished as I can make it:

Me: You didn't do anything wrong. You're a sweet girl, Brittany, honestly. You're fun, you're pretty, and you deserve someone who actually appreciates that. But there is no "connection" here. We hooked up twice because we were bored, and I let you think it meant something more than it did. That's on me. But I'm not interested in coffee, dinner, or you sitting on my bed.

Brittany: Wow. You don't have to be so mean about it…I was just trying to be nice to you.

Me: I'm not trying to be mean, I'm trying to be honest. You're a good girl offering to bake me food and act like a ghost in my apartment just to get five minutes of my time. Don't do that to yourself. Have some self-respect, stop texting me, and go find a guy who actually wants to spend time with you.

I read it over. It’s harsh. It stings. It makes me sound like a cold, arrogant prick—which, right now, is exactly what she needs me to be so she stops humiliating herself in my inbox.

I hit send.

The three gray dots pulse. They hang there for ten agonizing seconds—long enough for me to imagine her staring at the screen, face burning, processing the hit.

Then the dots vanish. No reply.

Good.

I set the phone screen-down on the nightstand and stand up. My heart is beating a little too fast, an acidulous spike of adrenaline burning through the morning haze.

I walk into the bathroom, turn the shower knob all the way to red, and step into water hot enough to sting. Steam floods the small tiled box, fogging the mirror, erasing the room, erasing the morning, until there’s nothing left except white noise and heat.