Page 67 of We Shouldn't Be Together
My fingers itch against the phone. There’s a nagging voice in the back of my head, urging me to text Tabitha. That can’t be my voice. My voice wouldn’t be that idiotic. But the itch persists. I replay her walking away, over and over again.
Text her.
No.
Text her.
How about, hell no.
Text her.
I remember the hopeless sadness on her face, groan, and open a new text screen.
My thumb hovers over the keypad. I lower the phone. This is dumb. My jaw rocks, and I imagine her in those black jeans again. I lift my phone higher and stare at the blank screen. I add her as a recipient, and start typing.
"Just checking you didn’t give me a phony number."
I lower the phone with a sigh. As my chest constricts, I drop the phone and massage my creased forehead. That was so dumb. Why did I do that? Just because she looked sexy tonight, I’m supposed to forget I don’t like her?
I blink at my bedroom wall and gulp.
Did I really just describe Tabitha Jones as sexy?
I blink again, and all I see are black jeans.
Gulp.
Those chocolate curls.
I wipe the clamminess from my brow.
Those dang long lashes.
I slouch in defeat.
Those full, pouty lips.
Man, I’m a goner. I’m so screwed.
Holding my breath, I look down at my sent message.
No read receipt.
No reply.
What did I expect to get out of sending that?
I check the time. 11:47 p.m.. Ugh, it’s so late. I jab my thumb between my eyebrows and rub a hard circle between them. Why did I text her so late? What’s she gonna think?
My thumb turns into my entire hand, slapping my forehead.
“Stupid, Kai,” I berate myself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
Every twist of my stomach is an agony I deserve. I contemplate deleting the message, in hopes she hasn’t seen it, and then three dots appear.
“Whoa,” I breathe. “She’s replying.”
I get off my bed, feeling both agitated and energized. My hands are getting clammy, and I dump my phone on my bed as I pace the carpet.
