They’ve eased off a lot, but they know I’m not over Rhett and until I show them I am, they’re going to worry the way the Leslie family worries: way too fucking intensely.
Argh. I love them, but I don’t want to be the resident problem child anymore. I need to prove myself or whatever.
And maybe I finally answer Rhett.
This isn’t the first message he’s left me, and before now I haven’t even considered responding. I also haven’t told him to fuck right off either. I should, but I can’t do it. Each text from him brings a hit of dopamine that’s better than sex and I love sex. A lot. I need to know he’s still out there loving me even if I never want to speak to him again.
It’s a confusing place to be in. I’ve been taught to have compassion and so I understand him wanting what he wants. He was open and honest with me. It was a conversation any adult couple should have before deciding to get married.
We both chose hockey.
I wish he’d cheated on me or something. Then I’d have a real reason to hate him. I can’t even do that right. Hate him. I don’t. Not even a little bit. Just staring at his words in a text has the hollowness he left within me aching.
“I’m always watching, stupid,” I type out unsure if I should send it. Casey lobs over a bump in the road without warning and my thumb hits send.
“Noooo!” I scream. It’s okay. I have a new iPhone. I can unsend it. Frantically, I press buttons, but it’s not working. My reception’s gone again. I don’t know if it’s been sent. I can’t recall the message either. Fuck. Fuck the reception-shoddy mountains all to hell.
“What did you do?” Dirk asks.
I groan and rub my hand over my face. “Sent a text to Rhett.”
We rarely speak his name anymore so when I do, all the sound is sucked from the room until Stacey fills it, sinking into the cushion of the bench seat beside me and putting an arm around me. I curl my head into his oversized shoulder. “Was it in the ballpark of flirty or fuck off, sweetpea?”
“It was in the ballpark of, I’ve never stopped loving you.”
He squeezes me into him.
“Way to go, dumbass,” Casey says.
“Casey!”
Casey chuckles to himself from the driver’s seat. “Send another text to make it seem like you meant it for someone else. Easy fix. Do I have to solve all the family problems?”
“Okay, like what, genius?” I ask.
He shoves too many ketchup-flavored potato chips in his mouth. Instead of words coming out, it’s just crumbs.
“Eww,” Dash says from the passenger seat. “I’ll take this one. What was what’s his face’s name? Guy you fucked from the pub? Amazing hair?”
“Andwith incredible dick,” I add. “Mercy Meyer.” My crush of forever. It’s nice when our heroes are as awesome in bed as we fantasized they’d be.
“Tell him—in your own words—that you thought it was your last conquest. Plus, he’ll know the name.”
I turn my head up so I can see Stacey’s wise eyes. He’s the smart one in the group. “That a good idea?”
“It’s a terrible idea.” He spins his white Wildcats ball cap around, so the brim is backward. “Do it, Leslie.”
“Awwright!” Casey shouts around more potato chips.
“Fuckin’, eh,” Dirk says.
I sit up. There’s still no reception so that gives me time to compose the text. Ha! Got it.
“Whoops, sorry! That was for, Coach.”
I show them and explain, “I know Rhett. He’ll ask me who the new coach is. I can fuck with him a little.”
The lie won’t last long. Rhett’s coach’s parents are part owners of our team, but it’ll be enough to piss him off and make him jealous for five minutes, thinking I’ll be within close proximity all season to someone I fucked, which is what I’m going for.
