11. Colton
ELEVEN
COLTON
My phone ringing yanks me right out of the fantasy currently playing in my head. My mom’s face appears above her number as it rings. It feels exactly the same as a cold shower, and I suck in a breath at the terrible timing.
I answer on the third ring, already bracing myself. “Hey, Mom.”
“Colton! I was hoping I’d catch you. Are you with Jasmine tonight?”
The way she says her name is all sugar and approval, like she handpicked Jasmine herself—which, honestly, she kind of did. “Uh… no. She had a group project. I’m just—uh—back at the dorm.”
“Oh, well, I hope you two are making time for each other. She’s such a sweet girl, Colton. Your father and I just love her. She’s… good for you.” Her voice softens in that way it does when she thinks she’s being subtle. “Stable. Focused. Exactly the kind of person you need in your life right now.”
My chest tightens. I know what she means. She doesn’t have to say it out loud. Someone like her. Not someone who will make your life complicated.
“I know, Mom,” I murmur.
“And don’t forget,” she says, perking back up, “the alumni dinner is in a few weeks. We’re expecting you and Jasmine to come. I already told Mrs. Worthington you’re bringing your girlfriend, and she can’t wait to meet her.”
“Right. Yeah. We’ll be there.” My throat feels dry.
“Okay. You’re still coming over Sunday, right?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Wouldn’t miss your home-cooked meal.”
“We’ll see you then. We’re so proud of you, honey. Keep making good choices, okay?”
I hang up before she can hear the crack in my voice and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzes again a second later, the screen lighting up the dim dorm room.
SmokeScreen77: Where you from, pretty boy?
I suck in a slow breath. Pretty boy. Guilt twists low in my gut. God help me. If my mom could see me right now, she’d know I’m not her golden boy at all.
The message shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it slices clean through the fog in my brain.
My stomach flips, heat crawling over my skin.
I should close the app. I should throw the phone across the room.
I should not be as hard as I am right now.
Especially after the reminder of reality I was just served by my mom.
Whatever I’m doing on this app right now, it’s not my life or my future. Even if it’s exactly what I crave.
I’m still staring at the message—still undecided—when the door swings open .
“Yo,” Caleb says, voice loud and casual as he kicks off his shoes. “Why’s it smell like sex and a damn candle factory in here? You watching porno?”
I jolt, jerking upright in bed so fast my phone drops to the comforter. My blanket shifts with me, and not in a helpful way.
Caleb freezes halfway to his desk, gaze catching the obvious tent in my shorts. His brows shoot up.
“Shit, my bad,” he says, immediately turning toward his desk as if it’ll undo what he just saw. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your little…moment.”
“I wasn’t—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “It’s not?—”
He waves a hand without looking back. “Hey, man. No judgment. Just maybe put a sock on the door next time.”
A sock? I think, dying slowly.
Caleb puts in his earbuds and flops onto his bed, muttering something about stats homework, and I sit there—mortified, half-hard, and still thinking about the guy on the other end of the app.
I reach for my phone again. My fingers hover over the reply field.
It’s a simple question. Where you from? Not even sexual. But it is personal, and panic blooms inside my chest. I know from his profile that he goes to my college. That alone should make me delete the app.
I could lie. Tell him I’m out of state. Different school. Keep the game going. Or?—
Me: Close enough to ruin you. But far enough to make you beg for it first.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. God, what the fuck am I doing?
Then I flip onto my side, facing the wall, praying Caleb doesn’t ask me to borrow my laptop or something.
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.
I try to focus on folding napkins. On remembering which drawer the serving spoons are in.
Not on the fact that my phone is burning a hole in my pocket. That I can feel his messages waiting. That even now, part of me is still wondering what SmokeScreen77 said next.
That I’m still hard for a faceless boy with a filthy mouth and soft laughs I can’t even hear, but crave.
Jasmine’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You okay, babe?”
I blink.
“Huh?”
She smiles, not unkind, just too knowing. “You spaced out.”
“Just thinking about practice,” I lie, forcing a yawn. “Coach has us running extra for conditioning.”
She hums like she buys it, but I can tell she doesn’t.
Mom breezes back in, cheeks flushed from the oven heat. “You two still coming to the Alumni gala next Saturday?”
Jasmine nods. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
My stomach knots.
Because yeah, I’ll be there. I’ll wear the suit. Shake hands. Smile at the cameras, be exactly who everyone wants me to be.
Just like tonight.
But underneath it?
My hands still remember how it felt to stroke myself to the thought of a stranger's voice whispering my name. And my mouth is full of words I’ll never be able to say in this house .
Not while Jasmine is sitting next to me.
Not while I’m their perfect son.
Jasmine threads her fingers through mine under the table just as my mom sets down the roasted chicken and green beans. The same dinner she’s made since I was old enough to tie my cleats.
Comfort food. Nostalgia on a plate.
It should feel grounding. Safe.
Instead, my chest feels tight.
Mom breaks the silence while arranging the salad tongs. “So… Micah’s back.”
I stiffen.
Jasmine doesn’t say anything, but her eyes slide over to me.
“We heard from the school,” Mom continues, all lightness and good intentions. “Said there were some… arrangements made. After everything that happened.”
Everything.
Like that word can sum up the disaster I created.
“He’s back on the team,” Dad adds from the living room. “You okay with that, son?”
My jaw tics. “It’s not a problem.”
“Because we know it was complicated,” Mom says, glancing at me. “And the way they handled things wasn’t fair. Not to either of you.”
I nod, barely. “We’re not talking. It’s fine.”
Jasmine’s still watching me. Quiet. Too quiet.
“Well,” Mom sighs, laying out the napkins. “Just keep it respectful. You were friends for so long—don’t let the past get in the way of your football career. I’m sure you both can be decent with each other. ”
I bite back the laugh clawing its way up my throat. Decent? Is that what she thinks this is about?
Micah wasn’t just my friend. And football didn’t ruin us.
I did.
I said the words that killed his football career, while I held onto mine with both hands, choosing possible fame over him. I was so fucking stupid. I let the rumors bloom around him like weeds while I stood still and smiled for press photos.
Now he’s back—stronger, colder, angrier in all the ways that make me want to pull him closer and pay for every second he lost.
I barely notice dinner starting. Jasmine’s laughing, my mom’s telling some story about a board meeting gone wrong, and I’m just… floating .
It all moves around me. Dinner is tasteless. All I want to do is grab my phone and get lost in Prism.
Dad launches into a story about some client at the firm who tried to expense a trip to Cabo under "team bonding," and the table erupts with polite laughter. I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile when Mom glances at me as if she’s double-checking her son’s default setting hasn’t changed.
I’m a robot, doing exactly what’s expected.
I stab a green bean and chew, attempting to shove everything else down with it.
The vibrating buzz in my pocket is phantom now. I didn’t even bring my phone to the table. But I feel it. The unread messages. The possibility.
Because maybe he did reply again. Maybe there is a little number 3 on the app now. Maybe he sent another picture. Another filthy promise. Maybe he’s still waiting. Or maybe he's m oved on.
“You’re quiet,” my sister says, pouring herself more lemonade. “That’s rare.”
“Just tired,” I say again. My new catchphrase. “Long week.”
Jasmine rubs my knee under the table. “We were up late.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Studying, I’m sure.”
Jasmine giggles. My dad just shakes his head and helps himself to another slice of chicken.
I excuse myself halfway through dessert—claiming I left something in the car. No one questions it. I’m the good son, remember? The golden boy. The one who doesn’t cause ripples.
But as soon as the door clicks shut behind me, I lean back against my car, drag a hand down my face, and open the app.
Two unread messages.
I open the app before I can talk myself out of it, hands already clammy despite the warmth in the air.
SmokeScreen77: Tell me what you want, pretty boy. No one else is listening.
God. My breath catches, heat flaring low in my stomach. It’s like he’s reaching through the screen, peeling me open with just one sentence.
Another message loads right after.
SmokeScreen77: Did I scare you away with the question earlier? We don’t have to get to know each other. You can just keep talking dirty.
My heart knocks against my ribs.
He thinks I bailed. That I backed off because he asked where I was from. Because he wanted a little more. And he’s probably not wrong.
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.