Curling my fingers over the back of the chair, I peek past the sheer lavender curtains and watch him slam the door of the Lexus GX with a bag of soccer balls hooked over his shoulder. It makes his bicep flex, stretching his green varsity soccer shirt taut.
Why do mean boys always have to look like that? He’s an angel-faced demon in disguise with his striking gray eyes, floppy light brown hair, and a dangerous, dazzling smile he uses to melt the panties off of his adoring fangirls. Not that I know what his charm-up-to-eleven smile looks like up close. I only get the cruel smirks directed my way when I have the misfortune of catching his attention.
Collapsing back into the chair, I bite my lip and push Connor Bishop from my mind. I’m a girl on a mission to flirt. He isn’t messing this up for me.
As I tap my nails against my phone and tug my lips side to side in thought, different options scroll through my mind. Hey cutie? I shake my head. No, that’s too much. Hope you’re having a good day? I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face.
“Why are words so hard?”
The stuffed sea lion on the bed doesn’t answer. I’m terrible at this stuff. A 4.0 GPA and all my baking skills, yet I can’t flirt for shit. It’s like I’m defective, missing a social skill or two because I listened to all the things Mom has always warned me about boys, and ran in the other direction when one spoke to me.
Except for one. But that didn’t end well.
I cock my head to the side as a thought occurs to me while I’m wallowing in self pity. What would Connor say in this situation if he was going to sweet talk a girl he wanted?
My gaze flicks to the window where his bedroom light is on. I only know it’s his room because he refuses to change with the curtains closed, the self-obsessed exhibitionist. I may have caught sight of his bare chest—briefly—a time or two over the years. He has abs, and that’s just completely unfair.
Dropping my voice into a lower register and pretending to be all macho, I shoot my stuffed sea lion a sly look and say, “Baby, you light up the sky with your pretty smile.”
A beat of silence passes before I make a sound like a dying animal in my humiliation. I sink further into the seat, wishing for the ground to open up and swallow me. Thank god no one actually witnessed that train wreck.
“I’m hopeless!”
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.
Then again, who am I to judge my father when Mom does nothing to hide what she’s doing either?
A year and a half of this shit and it still feels like the first time I walked in and found her on the kitchen counter with her campaign manager’s pale ass pumping between her legs. My stomach rolls at the memory, the traumatic image permanently burned into my brain. At least back then she kept it a discreet secret. Now Damien eats dinner with us and spends almost every night in my mother’s bed. Everyone on the block waves at our dear family friend when he comes around.
It makes me sick.
“Going to bed. Have a good night, Dad.”
“Oh, Connor, don’t forget.” Dad gestures toward Mom’s insane anal retentive calendar on the wall. Well, her personal assistant is the micro manager, I suppose, but Mom’s no better. She trains her people well, and the rest of the world falls in line or faces the wrath of a socialite who fancies herself a self-made political woman. Dad peers over his shoulder. “Appointment tomorrow. Meet me in my office. I have a morning budget meeting with the school board, but I’ll still be able to take you.”
My lip curls. I cover it with a deep gulp of soda.
“Never forget.” With a tight smile, I wave my phone, where the calendar reminder Mom’s assistant programmed will go off soon. “Night.”