Chapter 28
Tristan
Oh fuck. No—
“Tristan, what’s wrong?”
It takes me a good several blinks to realize that Reagan’s at my elbow, trying to pull my phone over to her so she can read what’s on the screen.
That her Kindle is lying abandoned on the counter beside us.
And from the nosy stares of a few customers, I’m thinking I kinda might have blurted my reaction out loud.
“Nothing.” I click off my screen. Stuff my phone back in my pocket.
Grab a rag.
Ignore the way my fucking hand fucking shakes as I start to scrub. And scrub. And fucking scrub the shit out of the water stains on the side of the espresso machine.
They’re not coming off.
Not coming off.
I have to get them off—
“Tristan.”
I fucking jump out of my fucking skin when a small hand closes around my wrist, stopping my scrubbing.
Not clean—
“You sure you’re okay?”
The shop comes back into focus around Reagan where she’s standing right beside me. Staring.
“Hon, what happened?” Gently, she peels the rag out of my hand.
I drag in a breath. Hold it. Breathe out.
“Just a text from my ex.” The words feel like broken glass.
Fuck. This. Day.
And. Fuck. Him.
Reagan shoots me a sympathetic look. “You miss him?”
I don’t recognize the laugh I choke out. “Fuck no. He just pisses me off and I don’t want to have to deal with his shit right now. Or ever.”
Fucking understatement of the century.
Reagan totally looks like she wants to talk more about it, but I turn away from her, grabbing a fresh rag and going back to scrubbing the espresso machine.
Slower though. In control. Not freaking the fuck out.
Tuning out the itchy-crawling ick creeping over my skin at the fact that I just can’t get the metal clean.
I feel like a dick for blocking Reagan out, but it’s just that I don’t want to talk about this shit. Don’t even want to think about it.
The words of fucking Josh’s text keep playing on repeat through my head.
So you miss me or what?
Not good. So fucking not good.
I don’t know what happened, but I can guess. Whatever new piece of ass he’d found to replace me got sick of his bullshit and left him, same as I did.
And what does that mean now? It’s all gonna start all fucking over again? The texts. The calls. The begging. The threats.
Fuck. He can’t track me down, can he?
I could have blocked his number. Could have changed mine.
Only, the idea of blocking his number had scared the shit out of me. Fuck, it still does.
If I block him, I don’t know what he’s thinking. Won’t have any warning if he finds a way to track me down and comes to try to drag me back to Tucson.
There’s no getting around the fact that the only reason I went up my own stairs to my apartment and not straight up to Jesse’s instead, plans or no plans, was that Jesse’s lights were off, which had to mean he wasn’t back from Alex’s place yet.
What the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t stop thinking about how cuddling up in Jesse’s warm, comfy arms would make my shitshow of a day all better?
(And by the way, I’m taking a hard pass on diving into the fact that, two weeks ago, I’d have totally laughed my ass off at the idea of me ever thinking shit like that.) Regardless, it’s obvious that Jesse cuddles are not on the table tonight, and since there’s no use in being a needy bitch and sulking about it, I’m trying my best to keep myself good and distracted.
The problem is, my brain is way too jacked up and edgy to even think about trying to paint.
Besides, even if I could get my mind to slow down enough, anything I started right now would just leave me feel like I’m laying out all those pesky, way-too-real-feeling feelings I’m not remotely ready to face.
As for playing my keyboard, I can’t even pretend like doing that without Jesse on the other side of the wall to join in and listen really appeals.
At least I’ve managed to shake off the skin-crawling urge to scrub clean every inch of my already spotless apartment. Mostly.
So that’s how I’ve ended up here, sprawled out on my bed, one chapter into a goddamn romance novel.
Before I’d left work, Reagan had texted me the title of a book she said she just knew I’d be into. Not that reading’s ever really been my thing, but honestly? The girl’s right so far.
Non-stop thoughts about Jesse’s melt-worthy cuddle abilities aside, and I’ve gotta admit that Reagan’s book rec is doing its job pretty damn well.
I’ve finally gotten myself to dial down my blinding panic to a cringy ick whenever I remember that Josh’s unanswered text is here, on the same phone I’m reading from. And honestly? Fuck him.
One, he doesn’t know where I am. Two, there’s no fucking way I’m worth it to him to drag his ass all the way here from Tucson.
Holding my breath, I pull up my contacts on my phone. Close my eyes for a moment. Select Josh’s name. Block his motherfucking ass.
And then my breath whooshes out and I’m grinning like a lunatic because holy shit but that feels fucking fantastic.
Next door, there’s a muffled bump outside. The sound of the front door opening. Closing.
And I’m just gonna sit here and pretend like my heart didn’t just do a swoopy leap and that all that nauseous lump that’s been twisting away in my stomach most of the day didn’t just vanish. ‘Cause that would be totally ridiculous.
No level of denial is enough though to ignore the almost-real-life-heart-attack I have when my phone buzzes in my hand, ‘Sunshine’ popping up on the screen.
By the way, that sound I barely swallowed down just now? Totally wasn’t a squeal. Nope. No such thing.
And I definitely don’t full-on scramble to open up my messages.
Then, for a hot second, all I can do is stare. Oh, and smile. So much hearty-eyed, butterfly-fueled smiling.
Sunshine: If you’re not doing anything, do you want to come over?
Variations of “OMFG, yes! Yes! YES!” rapid fire through my brain, but obviously, I can’t send shit like that back to him. So with a grin, I type out the next best thing.
Me: Sunshine! *gasping face emoji* Is this a booty call??!!
And then, ‘cause I can only imagine what that message’s gone and done to his face, and ‘cause there’s no way in hell I’m gonna let all that sexy blushing I just know he’s doing right now go to waste, I’m bouncing right up off my bed.
Lights off, door locked, and I’m on my way next door to turn my shitty day into the exact opposite.
Oh, and that message by the way? Totally sounds like a booty call.