Page 30 of This

More heat floods my already-flushed cheeks, and I drop my head into my hands.Shit. But what did I think would happen once he got me naked from a state away? Acool, see you in a few weeksand a thumbs-up emoji?

Before I lose the nerve, I flip the camera around on my phone and send Dane a picture of my tits.

Who even am I right now?

The dots blink, my heart pounding way too hard for sitting in my bed, not doing anything. I down the last of the wine in my glass and consider chancing the catwalk for another bottle until the dots stop.

Jesus, you’re beautiful. I’m hard, just thinking about what I would do to you if I were there. I want to touch you so bad.

I wish you could.

Yeah? Tell me how you want me to touch you, baby. How to make you come.

Better yet. Show me.

And I’m about to. About to answer his video call, flashing on my screen. About to do something I’ve never even considered doing with anyone else.Foranyone else.

Until a message drops down from the top of the screen.

Marco:WTF!

Then another.

You see Insta?

Another.

Who’s the bitch tagged with my Great Dane?

I blink at the phone a few times, my sloshy brain slow to process. When I open the app, I see a post from Dane, a picture of a beer bottle on the coffee table in his living room from thirty minutes ago. I tap his name, so I can go to his tagged photos. Marco used to check them in case someone caught an ab shot, always disappointed with a lack of flesh. Except the first picture that pops up does show bare skin. It just doesn’t belong to Dane but the midriff of a blonde his arms happen to be around.

Dane tries calling again. I stare at the screen until it changes back to him and the girl. Six posts with them in the background, each a little more obvious about where their night heads. His nose against her cheek, lips on her jaw. Her body pressed into him, hands fisted in his shirt. The same shirt lying on his bedroom floor in the pictures he sent me only a few hours later.

Your turn, he said, but now, the words mean something entirely different.

Boulders slowly rolling over logs. My insides feel like the wood sounds. Cracking and splitting under the weight of the stone. I’ve experienced the sensation before and remember it well. Bentley screwed around a lot the first time we dated. The bowler, too, only he and his shoe ho barely blipped on my radar. With Bentley, though, it hurt every time he cheated, and finding out I’d been sharing him without my knowledge left me feeling exactly that—I gave him all of me, and he gave part. He cheated more the second time around, but I cared less. It spared my insides.

By the time Dane’s name flashes on the screen again, I don’t feel drunk anymore. On wine. Or him. But I feel sick from both, even though I shouldn’t. Dane hasn’t cheated on me. He can’t because we’re not together. So, why all the crushing?

What happened?he texts.Where’d you go?

I shove the phone in a drawer and slam it shut, wiping away tears I have no reason to cry. Angry over nothing and betrayed by someone who hasn’t done anything wrong.

All the clothes I was wearing I bury in the laundry, and I dig through my dresser for something warm. Nights in San Francisco get so cold. The cool blue and purple walls in my room only add to the chill. Bundled up in a sweatshirt, fleece pajama bottoms, and two pairs of fuzzy socks, I crawl back under the covers. Not that the extra clothing helps, as I still shiver. Still need to curl into a ball. Still wish I could be anywhere else.

Anywhere but here, in a room that reminds me of him.

Turns out, a safety net under the tightrope only matters if you fall. It does nothing to save you from slipping and hanging yourself on the wire.

Amuted knock wakes mein the morning. I’ve burrowed so far under the comforter that I exist as a lump in the center of the bed. How I prefer to stay for the day—pity myself before I pick it all up and push forward.

“Bennett?”

Aria lifts the comforter from the bottom of the bed, finding me in my lumpiness. She thoughtfully studies me, and when I don’t say anything, she crawls in without asking any questions. We lump together until Steve pops his head under the blanket. He focuses on me, scanning over my face like he wants to paint me. Afraid I’ll wind up stuck on the stool in his tower for six hours, I sit up and rip the cover off my head.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

He nods, accepting my choice of cleanliness, and I dash into my bathroom before he changes his mind.

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