Page 142 of Puck the Coach's Son

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“Diane.”

“Yes, Paul.”

His hand on the sink edge loosens.

“I don't know how to do this.”

“I know you don't. I'm going to help you. Starting now. Starting with you picking up that phone…” She points at the phone on the counter, his phone. “…And calling your guy on the lawn and telling him he's dismissed.”

He looks at her.

“Now, Paul.”

He reaches for the phone.

I stand up and Paul looks at me long and hard for one minute, before he sighs and his head hangs. That’s my sign. I’ve won for now. I go back upstairs and sit on the edge of my bed.

I open the thread with Maddox.

I heard

About blackridge, I mean

Please Maddox

I will get on a bus

I will get on anything

I can come to blackridge

I dont need to stay here i never needed to stay here

I love you

I love you i'm sorry i didn't say it last night

I'm saying it now

Please answer

I send them fast. I send them before I can think about whether I should have spaced them out, whether a twenty-year-old dumping eleven texts on a man who's been fired from his job and evicted from his apartment is a good look, whether he'll read them in the order I meant or in a blur on a notification screen.

I send them.

The three dots do not appear.

The read receipt does not appear.

The littledelivereddoes appear under the last one and stays.Delivered. Delivered. Delivered.Eleven times.

I wait.

Seven minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

No reply.

The lastdeliveredsits there flat and gray and final at the bottom of the screen.

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