Page 68 of A Stealthy Situation

Harrison hasn’t responded to my message the day after our fight either. I’ve typed about a million since then too, all I was too chickenshit to send. I should be studying. I should be focused on school. I should be partying my heart out and getting the best of my college days under my belt, and I should be helping Em figure out what’s next, but no.

No.

My stupid brain, which is apparently resistant to alcohol tonight, is determined to think about one person and one person only. Fuck it. I hate it.

Instead of spending any more time at this party, I climb the ladder to the attic and watch them all from the window there. Of course, it makes me feel shittier than ever, but so does everywhere, so fuck it.

I pull out my phone, trying not to be too depressed over the lack of messages and unable to stop myself from opening our texts. All amazing and cute and flirty right up to the radio silence. It’s not fucking fair.

I’m typing before I can stop myself.

Sure, don’t write back. Ignore me and act like I’m a total stranger. Real mature.

I give him a few minutes, and when there’s still nothing, I kick the wall and try again.

I said I was sorry, what the hell else do I have to do?

Nothing.

You’re acting like it was on purpose and it wasn’t! Dammit, Harrison. This isn’t fair.

The more I write that he ignores just brings on my frustration. I bite my fist as I smother a scream and plead with myself not to write anything else. Of course, I’m a dickhead and don’t listen to that good advice.

Clearly weren’t falling for me after all, were you? Why’d you have to go and fuck up my whole life, huh?

My phone vibrates, and the way my gut flips should put me in the hospital.

Are you drunk?

I glare at the three words, rage building that it’s all the response I get.

Me:

No, I’m not fucking drunk.

Harrison:

Have you been drinking?

Me:

Yes, but it didn’t work.

Harrison:

I’m glad you think that. Go to bed.

Those stupid tears are pricking my eyes at being talked to like a kid. He’s not interested. He’s not going to give me what I want. Apparently, I’m an even bigger mess than I realized because I’m out of control with my next message.

Me:

Can’t. Gotta go get my dick sucked. Night.

He doesn’t reply.

I can’t even blame him.

My ringtone is piercing, and I forgot to close the blinds last night, so the sunlight is burning my motherfucking retinas. Apparently, the alcohol eventually started to work because I don’t remember passing out in bed naked.

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