Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
COVE
My fingers hover over the keyboard, every letter of yes begging to be typed. I almost do it—almost send the place, the time, a flirty little GIF of someone blowing a kiss or winking. Something cute and easy.
But then my brain kicks in. And suddenly I can’t breathe. Because this isn’t just another flirty DM. This isn’t a thirsty fan who got lucky in a contest. This isn’t a one-off.
This is Everest.
The guy who looked at me like I was magic, not merchandise. Who held eye contact like it meant something. Who kissed me like it was sacred.
And that’s terrifying.
I stare at my phone like it’s betrayed me. My heart’s still racing. Still saying say yes, say yes, say yes, but now my ribs feel too tight and my brain is barreling down memory lane at full spiral speed.
Every guy I’ve let past the outer gates of Cove-land has eventually turned on me.
The ex who called me a tease in front of our friends.
The one who said he couldn’t “wife a camgirl” after half a year of encouraging me to stream in lingerie.
The one who took screenshots and posted them in a group chat for clout.
Even the sweet ones had expiration dates.
They all made me feel small, tiny, stupid and disposable.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and glance at the message I’ve half-typed out:
Me: Let's do it. There’s this little ice cream spot by the boardwalk. I’ll even let you pick my flavor.
God, he’d love that. He’d probably show up nervous but game, flustered and smiling, trying not to let his eyes wander while I inevitably push all his buttons.
But I don’t hit send.
Instead, I stare at it for a long moment, then…
Backspace.
My thumb holds it down until the message disappears into nothing.
I toss my phone onto the pillow beside me like it just accused me of something.
Because the truth is…
I want to say yes.
I want to lean into this—the flirty texts, the no-cameras version of whatever this is becoming.
But I’m scared.
Not of him.
Of me.
Of what I’ll become if I let myself want something real again and it crumbles.
By the way he already makes me forget the rules I’ve lived by for years.
I spend the next hour scrolling TikTok, watching recipe hacks and sped-up DIY videos I’ll never use. Just trying to drown the noise in my head.
But the quiet finds me anyway.
That kind of ache that settles behind the sternum and whispers things like you’re gonna regret this.
And maybe it’s right.
I pick up the phone again and type one line.
Me: I don’t know what this is, but I’m not ready to let go of it yet.
My thumb hovers but I click send. There’s no flirty GIF this time or suggestive emoji.
Just me.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
I don’t expect a reply right away.
Hell, I half-expect silence. That he’s asleep. Or stunned. Or that I scared him off by being too honest and not nearly cute enough.
But then—
Everest: Go out with me.
Three little words.
No overthinking. No hesitation. Just… him. Doing the exact thing I was too afraid to do.
I stare at it, a stupid smile crawling across my lips like it owns the place.
Go out with me.
God, that shouldn’t feel this big. But it does.
I type fast, barely stopping to think.
Me: Fine. But no filming. And I don’t want something boring like dinner and a movie. I want adventure.
There’s a pause. The little typing bubble disappears once. Comes back.
Everest: So… laser tag?
I cackle.
I picture him all serious and flushed, ducking behind foam walls with a plastic blaster like he’s in Mission: Impossible.
And I love it.
Me: YES. That. Take me to do that.
He sends a GIF of a stormtrooper falling over dramatically, then follows it with the address of a laser tag place not far from me.
Everest: Saturday night?
Me: You bring the strategy, I’ll bring the glitter war paint.
And just like that, it’s real.
We’re doing this. For real. No cameras or persona. Just… us.
Everest: Can I get your number? I mean, unless you want to keep messaging me through the website like some 2008 AOL chatroom vibe.
I laugh again.
Me: Gimme yours. I’ll text you so you know it’s real.
He drops it in one message. I type it in like I’m defusing a bomb, then send a quick:
Me: It’s me. The cotton candy queen. Prepare to lose this weekend.
A second later my phone buzzes back.
Everest: Not a chance, sugar. But I’m ready to destroy you in style.
We don’t stop.
It starts simple. A meme. A video of me trying to eat flaming hot cheetos and regretting everything. But soon it turns into an all-out texting spree. Every message makes me laugh harder, blush deeper, feel more seen.
We’re basically middle schoolers on a three-way call, minus the third wheel and the curly phone cords.
By the time the sun starts threatening to rise, my cheeks ache from smiling and my heart’s doing stupid things like hoping. And for the first time in a long time, I go to sleep feeling like maybe—just maybe—I won’t mess this up.