Page 45 of Shut Up and Score
Because I’m in deep. And I don’t even know his name.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, it’s not the app.
Jasmine: Don’t forget we’re going to your parents’ tonight. Pick me up at 5? ??
Fuck.
I stare at the message, guilt punching through the haze of want still clinging to my skin.
Family dinner. Perfect son. Perfect boyfriend. Perfect lie.
I shut my eyes and groan into my pillow, pressing the phone to my forehead as if maybe it’ll burn the memory out of my skull.
SmokeScreen77 doesn’t know who I am. Doesn’t know what I’m doing. Doesn’t know I’ve got a girl waiting for me to show up, smile, and pretend that everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
He only knows what I let him see. What I choose to give him.
And maybe that’s why it’s so easy to fall into this little fantasy we’ve built. It’s not real. It can’t be. Because if it was?—
I don’t finish the thought.
Instead, I text Jasmine back:
Me: Wouldn’t miss it. Be there at five.
Then I tuck my phone under my pillow like it’s a secret I’m trying to smother.
Because if anyone knew—if she knew?—
If he ever knew?—
I wouldn’t just be screwing up my life.
I’d be destroying it.
I ignored the little 1,and then 2, on the app for the rest of the day. Didn’t even open it.
Didn’t let myself think about it. Because I can’t be that person. No matter how much I want to be.
“Don’t forget to smile,” Jasmine says beside me as we step up onto the porch. “Your mom will assume we’re breaking up if you so much as blink weird.”
I give her a tight smile. “Noted.” She’s not wrong, and I'm pretty sure my mom would pick Jasmine over me.
The front door swings open before I can knock. My mom, full of perfume and pastel lipstick, throws her arms around me dramatically as if I’ve returned from war.
“There’s my baby! Come in, come in—shoes off, I just got the floors redone.”
She hugs Jasmine next, cooing over her earrings, her nails, her new lip color—Jasmine’s the real prize, and I’m just the delivery system.
My dad’s voice booms from the living room. “Game’s almost over. Dinner in twenty?”
“Fifteen,” my mom calls back, shepherding us toward the kitchen. “And put your phone down!”
The house smells like rosemary and roasted garlic. It’s almost too familiar. The kind of familiar that makes your skin itch because you’re not the same person they think you are, and they don’t even notice.
I help Mom set the table while Jasmine perches on a barstool, chatting with my sister about some sorority mixer they both plan to sabotage with glitter shots and matching outfits.
