13. Colton
THIRTEEN
COLTON
My phone buzzes, Mom’s name lighting up the screen. I already know what this is about.
I accept the FaceTime and hold the phone so she mostly sees my shoulder.
“Hey, Mom.”
“There’s my boy,” she says, smiling like I’m ten again. “Just calling to remind you the alumni dinner starts at six on Saturday. The Worthington’s are so excited to see you, and of course, to meet Jasmine again. She’s still coming, right?”
“Yeah. She’s coming,” I say automatically, though my stomach knots.
Mom beams as if I just confirmed the engagement.
“Oh, good. She’s such a lovely girl, Colton.
We couldn’t have dreamed up a better match for you.
She’s got that…grounding energy. Keeps you steady.
” Her voice lowers, like we’re sharing a secret.
“Your father says he can see your whole future when you’re standing next to her. And it looks bright.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep from saying anything. Bright. Sure. Like a spotlight burning me alive.
“You’re lucky, sweetheart,” she goes on. “Jasmine’s perfect for you—focused, dependable, from a good family? That’s the kind of woman you build a life with. I just…I look at you two, and I can already picture the wedding photos.”
My chest tightens. I glance at my dorm door, as if someone might walk in and see the perfect son performing on cue.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “She’s great.”
And she is great. Which is why guilt twists through me, stabbing and painful. I’m lying to her every day. Talking to a guy on the app. Fantasizing about Micah when I should be thinking about her. She deserves so much better than me.
“Good boy.” Mom sighs, satisfied. “Well, don’t be late Friday. Your father’s counting on you. And give Jasmine our love!”
The call ends with her cheerful wave, and the screen goes black.
I let the phone drop onto my chest and close my eyes, swallowing hard.
Buzz.
SmokeScreen77: Thinking about me?
A humorless laugh escapes me. Yeah. I’m thinking about him. About the pictures he’s sent that I can’t stop replaying in my head. About how badly I want to blow up the life my parents have already built for me.
And for one stupid second, I almost wish the dinner would never come. But it does come…way too fast.
The alumni hall smells of polished wood and money. My tie feels too tight, and I tug on it, attempting to loosen it before it chokes me.
Jasmine loops her arm through mine as we step in, smiling up at me pretending she actually wants to be here. She looks perfect, of course—soft curls, pale pink dress, the kind of classic my mom would pick out herself.
“Colton!” Mom’s voice cuts through the polite chatter. She waves us over, Dad right behind her with that politician-smile he saves for country club events.
“You made it,” she says, kissing my cheek. “And Jasmine, sweetheart, you look just lovely. Doesn’t she, David?”
Dad nods, giving me a firm clap on the shoulder. “Lucky guy.”
I force a smile. “Yeah. I know.”
We barely get a drink in our hands before we’re swallowed into a circle of people I half-recognize—alumni, board members, people who have known me since I was “Little Colton” running around the pool deck in swim trunks. They talk about the team, my captaincy, my grades.
“Such a bright future,” Mrs. Worthington coos, resting a manicured hand on my mom’s arm. “And this one—” she gestures to Jasmine, “—she’s a keeper. You two are a picture-perfect couple.”
My face hurts from smiling. I catch our reflection in the big window by the piano. Me in the tailored suit. Jasmine glowing at my side. And suddenly I feel as though I’m watching a stranger’s life.
“Thank you,” Jasmine says, squeezing my arm. She doesn’t notice my hand has gone cold .
Then comes the toast. Some alumni guy my dad loves raises a glass and says something about bright young leaders and strong families. He jokes about wedding bells, and everyone laughs. Everyone except me.
My chest locks up. The room tilts.
Jasmine leans into me, acting completely natural. It’s me that’s being weird. Mom beams from across the table. Dad’s hand rests on the back of my chair in quiet approval.
And all I can think about is Micah. The way he looks at me as if he knows I’m lying to everyone, including myself. For the last week and a half, I can’t escape it.
I excuse myself before I can suffocate, murmuring something about the restroom. My phone’s already in my hand by the time I reach the hallway.
Buzz.
SmokeScreen77: You up?
And the other complication of my life. I should ignore it. I should go back inside and finish playing the part.
Instead, I step outside into the cool night air, heart racing, and type back with shaking hands.
Sunday morning, I’m sitting next to Jasmine in the quad. Protein shake in hand as she rattles on and on. Something about dinner plans. Or her sister’s birthday. Or whatever the hell I’m supposed to care about this week. And I remind myself again, this isn’t her fault. God, I’m such a dick .
I’m nodding. Smiling when I should. Saying “yeah, for sure,” on autopilot. But my mind’s somewhere else.
Scratch that— someone else.
SmokeScreen77: You ever think about what it’d be like? If we actually met?
I stare at the screen longer than I should. My pulse ticks faster. Thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Yes. Fuck, yes.
I think about it all the time. I imagine him pressed up against a wall, mouth hot, fingers tangled in my shirt. I imagine what his voice would sound like when he says my name— my real name.
And then I slam the fantasy down, locking it tight inside. Because that’s not part of the deal. That’s not safe.
I type:
Me: All the time. But mystery’s hotter. Safer. Real life’s messy.
He doesn’t reply right away, and I hate how much that gets to me.
Across the quad, Micah’s sitting on a low wall, laughing too loudly with three teammates I’m not close to. One of them nudges his shoulder. Micah doesn’t pull away. No, he leans into the touch.
My jaw clenches.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t. Not really. I watch him fish his phone out, he swipes up and grins down at the thing as if it just told him a joke.
Then he types out a quick message and puts his phone back in his back pocket, giving the guys he’s with his attention again.
He fits in with them in an effortless way.
A nd with the way they are all laughing, they obviously enjoy hanging with Micah.
I shift my attention back to my phone and find a new message. I didn’t even feel my phone buzz.
SmokeScreen77: You’ve been quiet lately. Don’t tell me Golden Boy’s losing interest?
Golden Boy. He doesn’t know how dead-on that is.
I should feel weird about it. Should feel guilty, especially with Jasmine’s voice trailing off beside me while she scrolls TikTok as though we’re just two strangers on a bench—not a couple.
Not that we’ve really been that for at least the last year.
Me: Not losing interest. Just distracted. You ever meet someone who gets under your skin in all the worst ways? And you can’t stop thinking about them?
It’s not a lie.
Micah’s laugh has been stuck in my head for days, weeks even. That goddamn smirk when he wins a drill. The way he casually flirts with anyone who isn’t me.
And now I’m wondering how someone who infuriates me in real life can feel so damn right in every midnight fantasy, fueled by SmokeScreen’s messages.
Smoke replies instantly.
SmokeScreen77: So…you’re falling for two people at once? Sounds exhausting. And hot. I’d offer to make it worse. In person.
I let out a breath. If I say no again, will he ghost me? I can’ t lose this connection. Stare at the screen. Type. Delete. Type again.
Me: I’ve thought about it. Meeting. But I don’t want to ruin it. What if it’s better not knowing?
SmokeScreen77: Coward.
Jasmine turns toward me angrily. “Seriously?”
“What?”
She gestures at my phone. “You’ve been grinning at your phone like someone’s sending you nudes.”
I pocket it fast, leaning back and acting as if I don’t feel caught. As if guilt isn’t eating me up. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s the problem, Colton. It’s always nothing with you. You’re never here. Not even when you’re sitting right next to me.”
Her voice spikes. A few heads turn. Including Micah’s. He’s across the quad, balancing a water bottle on his head and making two of the freshmen who joined the group laugh like idiots.
And yet, he still looks at me, watching us as if he’s heard every word. And worse, I want him to know everything. I want him to be the one who sent that message. I want it to be Micah behind the screen, teasing and tempting and always two steps ahead of me.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
“Are you even listening?” Jasmine snaps.
“No,” I admit, standing. “Not really.”
“Are you serious right now? Did I do something? Is it me?”
I glance once more at Micah. He’s not watching us anymor e. His phone is in his hand, and he’s grinning down at it as he texts someone again. Probably that bar hook-up. Hell, maybe that’s his boyfriend. Jealousy at the idea curls my stomach.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. And it takes everything not to pull it out and see if I have another message.
“I’m sorry, it’s not you, I’m just?—”
“Tired?” she snaps. “Yeah, I know. You’re always fucking tired.”
I glance around. Her anger is gathering us eavesdroppers. Perfect. More people can watch me destroy my life. A train wreck happening in real time.
“Guess what, Colton? I’m tired too. Of whatever this is—” she says, gesturing to all of me. I wince.
Yeah, this isn’t going great. I should end it.
Be real with her. She doesn’t deserve this.
She deserves someone who can make her happy, who can love her, who will be faithful…
because my sexting sure isn’t faithful, and the way I feel about even the thought of Micah isn’t faithful. I’m such a bastard.
“Jasmine,” I say, turning toward her. “Can we go somewhere else and talk?”