When I check my phone and see Zach’s name, I smile. I miss him. His long weekends away and my busier weekly schedule are making it harder for us to see each other. I dread thinking about how it’s all going to work when he gets drafted at the end of next year, but that’s a problem for another day.
Zach:Just got on the team bus. Flying back tonight but landing pretty late. Can I see you tomorrow? Miss you so much it hurts. Love you, Honeycomb. ??
My smile widens despite everything going on in my mind. Zach’s always so earnest, so certain. So completely mine, even when we're apart.
I type out a quick reply:
Honey:Yes please! Can’t wait. I miss you more than I’d like to admit in public.
Before I can set my phone down, another message pops up. Unknown number. My first instinct is to swipe it away and pretend I never saw it, but it’s there, staring me down.
Unknown:Thought you might want to see how your boyfriend looks at your “best friend” when you're busy getting them drinks.
Another message comes through.
Unknown:*Picture Attached*
Then another.
Unknown:Believing the rumors yet?
I tap the photo, and my smile fades. It’s a picture from the hockey game—the one where I left Jenni and Zach alone, praying they’d finally talk and call a truce. When I came back, the tension was seemingly gone; I thought they’d made peace.
But this picture? This picture makes it look like they were doing a hell of a lot more than making peace.
They’re sitting close, looking at something on her phone. Only… that isn’t hers. I don’t need to zoom to recognize the worn leather case with the faded St. Michael’s crest. It’s his.
Zach’s—in Jenni’s hand.
They just caught him at the wrong angle and timed the photo perfectly to make it look like he’s smirking.
He wouldn’t do that to me.
He couldn’t.
But the doubt doesn’t stop. It seeps in anyway, slow and toxic, slithering under my skin like smoke under a locked door. Curling, choking, whispering things I don’t want to hear.
Was Zach right from the start? Is Jenni into my boyfriend?
What if I've been blind? What if I've been so consumed with proving my independence that I've pushed him right into someone else's arms? Myfriend’sarms.
I delete the picture and block the number, even though I know it’s pointless. They’ll find me no matter how many times I do it.
New Message.
Jenni:Still on for dinner at 6? Need to vent about my lit professor before I lose my mind!
I glance at the clock. 5:30.
Right. Dinner.
I’d completely forgotten we made plans.
Part of me wants to stay here, bury myself under case files, and pretend if I work hard enough, I can drown out the poison of that anonymous message. Then I can lock the door and overthink in peace.
But the other part—the restless, starving part—knows I won’t survive that. I need air.
I needout.