Page 49 of Breakaway Daddies

Jack Anderson >> Bro, tell me this isn’t real.

Coach Walker >> We need to talk. Call me ASAP.

Mom >> Rowan. What is this? CALL ME.

My grip tightens around the phone, my jaw clenching so hard it hurts.

Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!

I drag a hand down my face, groaning as the weight of my actions sinks in.

Maybe, just maybe, we shouldn’t have given in to that impulsive urge for a wild adventure in the woods when Jinx had playfully insisted I join her for a walk by the lake.

It had been exhilarating in the moment: Jinx’s melodic laughter echoing off the trees, her teasing words urging us to run ahead on the winding trail. She had mischievously pulled us into the dense thicket of trees when the path was clear of other hikers.

Her daring challenge to let go of our inhibitions and embrace the raw excitement had been irresistible. And yeah, we did let go.

Now, staring at the chaos unraveling on my phone screen, that momentary thrill seems less like a cherished memory and more like the most foolish choice we could have made.

The photos, damn it, they look incriminating. Though nothing explicitly scandalous was captured, anyone with even a shred of perception could easily deduce what was happening in those frames.

My heart races, pounding against my ribs, and my stomach churns with anxiety, twisting into tight knots. I press my fingers against my temples, desperate to think clearly, but the rising tide of panic settling in my gut is making rational thought nearly impossible.

I nudge Thomas harder with my elbow, and he lets out a low groan, his eyelids fluttering open. “What, man?” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

I thrust my phone toward him, the bright screen illuminating his face in the dim room. He squints at the harsh light, rubbing his eyes before the headline snaps him into full awareness.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters, the realization hitting him like a cold splash of water.

Beside him, Bruno stirs under the rumpled covers, still heavy with sleep. I reach over and shake his shoulder with urgency.

“Wake up,” I insist.

He grumbles incoherently, but when Thomas mutters, “Seriously, we’re fucked,” the gravity of the situation pulls Bruno upright, his eyes wide with alarm.

The three of us exchange hurried whispers, the tension between us as palpable as the morning chill. Jinx remains curled up in the sheets, her breathing steady, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing around her.

“Who’s waking her up?” Thomas whispers.

Bruno shakes his head, adamant. “Not me.”

Thomas lets out a resigned sigh. “Dude, you’re the one she actually listens to sometimes,” he points out, glancing at Jinx.

We all turn our eyes toward her, hesitating. But before any of us can muster the courage to disturb her, Jinx shifts, stretching languidly like a lazy house cat in the warmth of the morning sun.

She blinks sleepily at us, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Morning,” she greets, her voice still heavy with sleep.

Then, as if struck by lightning, her expression shifts to one of horror. Without a word, she bolts upright and dashes for the bathroom, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

We all exchange glances, eyebrows raised and lips pressed into thin lines, as the unmistakable sound of retching echoes from the hallway bathroom. The air feels heavy with unease.

I grimace, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. “She’s still sick?”

Bruno, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, shakes his head. “She’s been acting weird for weeks,” he replies, his brows furrowing in worry.

Thomas sighs deeply, raking a hand through his disheveled hair, the strands sticking out in all directions. “Yeah,” he murmurs, a hint of reluctance in his tone. “And now we have to drop this bombshell on her, too.”

Jinx strides back into the room a moment later, her complexion a shade paler, but her expression defiant as she rolls her eyes at us.

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