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With a sigh I scoot up and type out missing your smile. I chew on my lip. It’s not bad. Maybe an emoji? But then again, emojis change meaning by the day.
“Ugh. No.”
I jab the delete button, erasing the message letter by letter. Frustration mixes with a heavy bubble in my chest. It swells until it chokes me. Before I finish deleting the text, I let my phone slip from my grip to plop in my lap, rubbing at my stinging eyes. The mascara I applied is probably smearing, but I don’t care. I can’t get this right, so why does it matter anymore?
An innocuous computerized whoop sound makes me freeze. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Shit.
Mortification crashes through me as I scramble to flip my phone. The evidence of my clumsy mistake glares back at me, punching through my stomach and making it plummet faster than concrete shoes dragging someone to the bottom of the ocean.
Thea: Missing you [Photo attachment]
The message sent. There’s no way to unsend texts, because the technology gods like to laugh at us unfortunate souls who send embarrassing shit and regret it the minute it transmits. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t see it.
How will I know, though? Wyatt never struck me as the type to leave his read receipts on. He could look at the text and I would never know.
“Fuck,” I drag out in a harsh whisper.
What if Wyatt does open it and hates it? I already see three things wrong with my photo. I wish more than anything I could yank it back. Erase it from existence. Keep it tucked away in my secret folder.
I try to suck in a slow meditative breath through my nose like Maisy always instructs, but it catches in my throat while my pulse thunders in my ears.
A million thoughts scramble through my head. Pictures, too. Thanks overactive imagination. I see Wyatt with his longtime girlfriend when he reads my text. In my head, they laugh and I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.
Squeezing my phone with sweaty palms, I search the internet, scanning articles and results with a jittery focus.
Does the throbbing-prickly sensation in my palms mean I’m experiencing an adrenaline surge?
How do I unsend a text message?
Can I delete a photo from someone else’s phone before they see it?
In the middle of my fruitless searching, a notification banner pops up at the top of my screen for a few seconds before disappearing. Wave emojis bracket his name.
My heart stops.
He texted back.
Two
Connor
My life is great from the outside. I’m the life of every party.
Until I’m forced to return home and face reality.
After dumping the bag of soccer balls from practice in the garage, I head for the kitchen. There’s nothing good in the fridge when I raid it, but I snag a can of Coke. I need it after that practice and I’ll likely be up late tonight.
“Connor,” Dad acknowledges as he strolls past me, pausing to check his reflection in the microwave. “How was practice? The team shaping up to have a good year?”
I grunt in response, narrowing my eyes when I pick up a whiff of his cologne. It’s not his usual, this one something heavier on the musky notes. My grip tightens on the can in my hand and I blow out a sharp breath, eyeing him up and down.
Dad’s salt and pepper hair is slicked back and he has on a new tie, which he straightens in the murky reflection. I roll my eyes and turn my back on his stupid primping. If he’s given up, he doesn’t need to make it so fucking obvious.
A faint giggle drifts from the second floor hall, followed by a deep murmur.
My brows pinch together and I drag a hand through my hair, digging blunt nails into my scalp.
This family is such a fucked up nightmare.
