Page 33 of Broken Trails
I flick the switch harder than necessary. I’d only boiled it not long ago, so the steam rises almost instantly. I focus on the hiss, the small, simple ritual, because it’s easier than acknowledging that he—a stranger, mind you—has already started to get under my skin.
I feel the vibration before the sound. Pulling my phone out from my pocket, I’m met with the same unknown number.
No. No, no, no. Why the hell is he calling me?
Something twists low in my stomach, and it’s not butterflies. Not even close. It’s that familiar, unwelcome flutter—born of dread, of years spent bracing for impact instead of blooming. Liam might have rewired my brain, but that doesn’t make this any less wrong.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of answering. And this guy—this boy? God, how old is he, anyway? The thought slides in uninvited, sticking like a burr. The ringing goes on, each chime digging under my skin. I think about letting it go to voicemail, about ignoring it until the silence wins. I even set it down, pretending I’ve taken back somecontrol. I haven’t. If anything, the tension sharpens, coiling in my shoulders.
I hover over the screen, willing myself to leave it.
“Ugh, fine!” I snatch it up and press it to my ear. “Hello.”
“Jeez, that took a while. You didn’t need to give yourself a pep talk before answering, did you?”
“More like… deciding if you were worth my time.”
His sudden laugh bursts through the speaker. It’s low and warm with a rasp at the edges, and it’s strange… disorienting, almost, to hear another man’s laugh in my ear.
“You wound me, Freckles ,” he drawls. “You gotta give me some credit here.”
I close my eyes briefly, already regretting the decision to answer the phone. “I knew I shouldn’t have picked up. Are you coming to get your things or not?”
“Yes to the wallet. No to the kitten. She’s all yours.”
The kitten meows from across the bench, as if she heard his words through the phone. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I shift my phone to my other ear. “There is nothing stopping me from taking this animal back to the animal hospital, or better yet, the shelter. Do not tempt me.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says, as if daring me.
He’s not wrong. Of course I wouldn’t. But it’s the only leverage I’ve got in this weird little exchange, and I’m not above pretending I’ve got more control than I really do. I could. But I won’t. I’m not that vile of a person. And the truth is, we both know I’m bluffing.
Even the cat probably knows it.
“That’s what I thought.” His voice crackles through. Oh, screw him. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” I hear a rattle of keys before the loud rumbling of an engine. “Oh, also, your name is officially going into my phone as Feisty Freckles.”
“What? No—” A groan escapes before I can stop it. I press the phone to my forehead, trying to compose myself before I lose my shit even more. The cold screen grounds me more than I care to admit. “Listen, I did not text you just so you could save my number.”
“Oh, I think you did. See ya soon—” I hang up before he can finish, slamming my thumb on the red button harder than necessary. Was it childish of me? Absolutely. Did it satisfy me? For all of five seconds.
God, he is so insufferable. Just the thought of him saving my number grates on me. Which begs the question—why do I care? Why am I even entertaining the thought when this is clearly what he wanted all along? My screen lights up again, and I’m so close to just powering it off at this point.
Unknown number: It’s not very nice to hang up on people mid-sentence.
Me: Well, I’m not nice.
Me: Please, delete my number.
Unknown number: Oh, so Miss “I’m not nice” does have manners. Sorry, but no. I won’t do that.
Me: Fine. I’ll just block you. Problem solved.
Unknown number: No, you won’t.
Me: Watch me.
I stare at the message thread for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen again. I open his contact, finger poised over the block button, but I don’t press it. I could. I should. I’ve done it before—cut people out with surgical precision the moment they started itching too close. It’s a skill I mastered years ago. One that kept me sane and safe. But this time… I don’t move. I set the phone down on the counter, screen still lit, conversation still open.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, the street outside growls to life. Not with a car engine.
