Page 233 of End Game

First, yes, that is how I saved him in my phone.

Second, I have had this number for months.

Third, I have never once used it.

There are reasons for that.

Good ones.

Probably.

The messages are already stacked.

AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER

You alive?

Because I distinctly remember telling you to use my number.

Then:

AUSTIN FUCKING FLETCHER

And yet here I am doing all the work.

I stare at the screen.

My pizza slowly folds in my other hand.

“Fuck.”

I set it down.

Pick it back up.

Set it down again.

This is stupid.

I've met him.

I've performed before his band.

I've hugged the man while drenched in enough sweat to legally qualify as a biohazard.

He's just a person.

A person whose band's last tour sold out stadiums.

Normal.

Totally normal.

I type.

Dex

I was giving you a respectful amount of time to forget I exist