Page 48 of Shut Up and Score
I did bail. Because I’m a coward. Because this—he—feels like something dangerous. Something I want too badly.
But I’m here now. Locked in my car with my heart in my throat and no one watching.
So I let my fingers move.
Me: Still thinking about your mouth. Still wondering what it’d feel like to grab your hair and feel the back of your throat squeeze around me.
I stare at the message for three full seconds before hitting send.
Then I lean back against the seat, pulse thrumming in my neck, watching the screen like it might save me. No response comes, and I sigh. It's not as if he's watching his phone.
I stare at the screen for a few more seconds, trying to summon him. Nothing. No typing bubble. No three dots. Just the echo of a message hanging in silence.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, scrub my hands over my face, and lean back against the headrest. I’m not sure what I expected. Immediate sexting? A heartfelt confession from a guy I don’t even know?
I’m such a dumbass.
The porch light clicks on behind me. Footsteps follow, quick and clipped across the driveway. I know it’s her before I hear the voice.
“Colton?”
I don’t sit up right away. Just crack one eye open as Jasmine approaches, arms folded across her stomach.
“You’ve been out here a while,” she says, no warmth in her voice now.
“I needed a minute,” I answer.
“For what?” she asks, too fast. “Dinner was fine. Your parents were even fine. You say you're tired and disappear outside for twenty minutes. Now you’re hiding in the car like a moody teenager?”
I look away. “I just needed space, Jas. That’s all.”
She steps closer, gaze scanning the interior of my car, looking for something. Or someone as if I'm hiding another girl in here with me. “You didn’t bring your phone to the table. That’s a first.”
I shrug. “Didn’t want the distraction.”
“Right,” she says, but it’s more of a scoff. “Too distracted to eat dessert, too.”
I should say something. Apologize maybe. Smooth it over.
But I don’t.
Because I’m still thinking about the guy on the app. About the way my stomach flipped reading his last message. About how I’m the kind of asshole who skips out on pie to check a hookup chat.
“You coming back in?” she asks finally, voice tight. Controlled. Practiced. “Or should I tell your mom you’ve suddenly developed a phobia of lemon meringue?”
I force a smile. “Be there in a sec.”
She waits—one beat too long—then turns on her heel and walks away, her hair swinging behind her like the curtain just dropped on the final act of a play.
The moment she disappears, I pick up my phone again. Still no message.
And still—I wait.
TWELVE
MICAH
Practice startsbefore the sun even remembers to show up.
