Page 42 of Exes That Puck
“Relax. I’m not,” I say and don’t flinch. The lie sits smooth on my tongue. Zeke is my secret.
Instead of doom-scrolling like usual, I open my notes app and outline a project that was just assigned. Set a thirty-minute timer and finish without checking my phone once. I drink water first, not coffee. These tiny wins make me feel weirdly powerful, like I’m reclaiming pieces of myself I’d forgotten existed.
Last night I sentThis weekend?He answered,Side door will be unlocked.Clean. No overtalking. No emotional spillage.
I decide… no more lines until Friday. If I cave, I text Lola, not him.
“Party Friday,” Payton announces in the hallway, vibrating with excitement. “Wolf Boy will be there. You’re coming.”
I arch a brow. “You know this how?”
“Emma’s lab partner’s roommate. Don’t ask.”
I say yes because distraction sounds good. Because it’s easier than explaining why I’m suddenly not sad.
Class passes in a blur of actual productivity. I take real notes in lecture, answer one question out loud and survive it. During break, I choose a seat by the window and text the girls’ chat about snack duty for pregame and outfits.
A flicker of impulse to check Zeke’s stories twitches in my mind but I deny it. I put my phone face-down and sip water like it’s discipline.
Barnes feels like balm during my afternoon shift. Dust-and-paper quiet, the kind of peace that doesn’t demand anything from me. I hand-sell a romance recommendation to a college girl who gushes about enemies-to-lovers tropes.
“Any with exes?” she asks.
I smile without answering that part.
On break, I scroll my camera roll instead of social media. Photos of me and the girls, study group sessions, random campussunsets. My life has more in it than him, I remind myself on purpose.
That night, Payton tests my story one more time.
“So... the study lounge,” she says into the dark.
“What about it?”
“You didn’t answer texts at two.”
“Phone died,” I say, flipping my charger around like evidence. “Charger was here.”
She exhales, lets it go. “Friday, wear something lethal but nothing that outshines me. Wolf Boy is a sure thing.”
I mumble, “We’ll see,” and let my secret with Zeke sit comfortable in my chest.
The next few days tick by with surprising confidence. I run a mile on the rec track. Start a new playlist that isn’t sad girl anthems. Cook ramen with extra greens in the communal kitchen and laugh with a girl from art history about our professor’s weird scarf collection. I feel like me.
Friday afternoon, I pull matching bra and panties from the drawer. It’s just black, simple, fits like a secret. If the party ends with me walking anywhere near a side door, I’ll be glad I did. If it doesn’t, I still get to feel put together.
Emma tosses a makeup brush into the air and catches it. “Hand me that eyeliner.”
I pass the pencil over while Payton attacks her lashes with mascara in the mirror propped against our window. The tiny speaker crackles with bass-heavy music, and Tori drops ice cubes into red cups one by one.
“No crying tonight,” Tori announces, pointing the ice scoop at all of us.
“Only chaos of the fun variety,” Emma adds, drawing a perfect wing on her eyelid.
Payton caps her mascara and grins at her reflection. “Manifest Wolf Boy.”
I take a sip from my cup, tasting more mixer than vodka. The burn is mild but manageable.
“Help me,” I say, catching Lola’s eye.
