Page 20 of Wanna Bet?

“Oh. Sorry.” Jace fixed it quickly, forcing his attention back into the present.

Work. Focus. Function. Be a normal human being.

Still, when the next customer stepped up and asked how his day was going, he heard himself say, “Good,” in a tone that felt suspiciously like hope.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

By the time his shift ended, the sky outside had shifted toward late afternoon gold. Jace grabbed his bag, said goodbye to Ellis, and stepped out into the cooling air.

He paused on the sidewalk. Tomorrow morning. He could almost see it already: the line of cars, the little wooden stand, her leaning out the window with that knowing look.

He smiled to himself, small and private. Then he headed for his car, already counting down the hours.

Chapter Six

From: Project Win

​Hey, Myah! Looking forward to this afternoon. Should I bring dried oats? For the birds I mean.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Myah told herself she wasn’t checking the path again, which was exactly why she checked it anyway.

Greenwood Park stretched out around her in that deceptively peaceful way parks had when the weather finally settled into something kind.

The sunlight was warm without being aggressive, the breeze soft enough that it didn't disrupt Myah’s perfectly curled hair. Children shrieked somewhere near the swings with the unfiltered joy only kids could produce, a dog barked in sharp offended bursts as if the world had personally wronged it and someone’s music drifted faintly from a portable speaker, the bass thumping like a distant, second heartbeat beneath everything else. The sounds layered together into a living backdrop, but none of it quieted the restless noise inside her head.

She sat perched on the very edge of the bench she had chosen fifteen minutes earlier, elbows braced on the knees of her ripped skinny jeans, fingers laced so tightly together that the skin across her knuckles had blanched pale. One of her legs bounced with nervous energy, stilled when she noticed it, and then started again anyway.

Myah wicked at her nails that she had gotten last week on a whim. She didn't usually spend so much money on trivial things, but her dads phone call sent her into somewhat of a rage mania. Still, she admired the fine detail of the painted stars and allowed her mind to drift.

He’s not coming.

The thought slipped in quietly, smoothly. Like it had always belonged there, like it was simply the most reasonable conclusion.

He’s going to ghost you. Obviously. Why wouldn’t he? You barely know him. He saw you at your most annoying. He probably went home, thought about it, and realized you’re a lot. Too much. A joke he entertained for five minutes and then–

Myah inhaled slowly through her nose, drawing in the smell of sun-warmed grass, asphalt from the nearby path, and the faint watery scent drifting from the bay beyond the trees. She counted to four the way she sometimes forced herself to when her thoughts started sprinting. She held her breath. Counted again.

He said he’d come.

People say things all the time.

Her jaw tightened at that, her teeth pressing together hard enough that her temples ached.

Two days ago she had watched him walk up to Good Times like a promise she didn’t think she deserved, and the memory still felt strange and fragile in her chest. He had stood there in that shy-defiant way of his, shoulders squared as if he expected someone to laugh but had shown up anyway. She had almost dropped the cup she was holding when she realized it was actually him.

He’d actually come.

That alone had knocked something loose inside her ribcage, something she had spent a long time keeping nailed down.

They had talked–awkwardly at first, their words bumping into each other like strangers in a narrow hallway, and then easier in that rare way conversations sometimes shifted when both people were trying not to care too much. He had given her his number with a shrug that looked casual but felt practiced, like he had rehearsed the indifference. She had texted him later that night before she could talk herself out of it.

Myah didn't date often, but a bet was a bet and she’d rather go on a hundred awkward dates than lose a bet. Myah looked down at her phone and unlocked it, going over their texts.

Their messages hadn’t been long, but they had been enough. Small things. Dumb things. A complaint he sent about a rude customer. A meme she responded with at two in the morning. A picture he’d taken of a record sleeve because he said it reminded him of her “vibe,” which she still hadn’t decided was an insult or a compliment. The thing that stuck with her though–the thing she hadn’t admitted out loud even to herself–was how quickly he replied.

Too quickly.