Page 129 of The Golden Scoop

Emma’s probably been up for hours. After all, I’m running behind. It’s almost ten.

My first instinct is to call her. I reach for my phone and tap on her contact.

The line goes straight to voicemail. I check my service. Four bars.

I try again.

Voicemail.

Okay, I tell myself.

No need to panic. She deserves to process this in her own terms too. Her last text didn’t seem off to me, but maybe she’s realized how immature I’ve been. Maybe I pushed her too far away and she’s decided she’s done chasing me.

I sit up fully, phone dangling from my hand. I don’t remember the last time I was this anxious about reaching someone.

Julia probably knows where she is. Would it be insane if I called the Harrisons?

I stare at Emma’s contact photo—her sitting on the hood of my car in those adorable overalls after our taco date, ice cream covering her radiant smile.

The text icon screams at me.

I have to make a move. The longer I stay silent, the more room I leave for things to break.

Morning. Hope you’re doing ok⁠—

Yeah, no.

Backspace. Way too casual. Of course she’s not doing okay. Neither am I. I can’t tiptoe around our situation.

Can we talk today?

I stare at it for a full ten seconds before hitting send.

A couple of minutes go by. The message never changes to delivered. Either she’s blocked me and wants nothing to do with me, or something is seriously wrong.

My phone rings an hour later.

I launch myself across the living room toward my nightstand like it’s the last few feet before the finish line after a two-day race.

But the screen doesn’t read Emma.

It’s Jennifer, surely armed with another lecture. My fingers hover over the reject button. It would buy me, at best, no more than five minutes to prepare before she calls again. She’s got the persistence of a scam caller and none of the guilt.

“Good morning, Jen,” I mumble, turning on the speaker and tossing the phone onto the bed. “Reloaded and ready to tell me off some more?”

“Matthew!” she practically shrieks.

Definitely not angry. Her anger is the calm before the storm. This feels… caffeinated.

“Please tell me you’re not wallowing in your room. Have you read it?” Jen asks.

I frown, confused.

“Read what?”

Jennifer sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh my God. You haven’t.”