Page 11 of The Heart Breaker

Me:

Love you too.

I lock my phone and slip it back into my bag, but it buzzes again almost immediately, and I pull it back out.

Cecilia:

We have a spot open tonight. Tell me you’re finally saying yes.

I stare at her name for a second, my thumb resting on the edge of the screen.

The first time she mentioned it, I laughed it off and told her I wasn’t that girl.

But now, I’m not sure I know who I am.

My mind flashes back to Professor Williams at the front of the room, talking about the way you can go your whole life letting other people decide who you’re going to be. How easy it is to just… keep playing your part.

Maybe this is stupid. Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and decide it was the worst idea I’ve ever had. But it’s my bad idea to make. Not Chase’s. Not my mom’s. Not anyone’s version of me except the one who’s standing in this hallway, tired and angry and done being reduced to the girl he cheated on.

My heart thuds as I type out my reply before I can talk myself out of it.

Me:

I’ll be there.

5

COLE

The second my fist hits the bag, it’s like I finally breathe for the first time all day.

I throw another punch, then another, left, right, left again, and the repetition starts wearing down the noise in my head. All I can hear is the beat of my pulse and the slap of my gloves, the ache building through my arms and shoulders. I welcome it. Crave it, even. The harder it hits, the less space there is for anything else.

It’s crazy how much relief this brings me. In here, I don’t have to think past the next breath, the next punch, the next turn of my shoulders. I just move until the ache drowns out the static in my head.

If I keep my hands busy, keep my body working, I don’t have to see her face every time I blink. Don’t have to think about the way she says she’s fine when she’s obviously not.

The guilt still settles in my chest, though, because it doesn’t matter how hard I hit the bag, or how many times I sweat through my shirt in this place. The second I stop, it all comes rushing back, and there’s too much riding on me for me to fuck any of it up.

The bag swings wide and I catch it with both gloves, holding it still while I drag in a breath. I press my forehead to the battered leather and squeeze my eyes shut, letting the burn in my shoulders sink deeper.

God, I’m so tired. Tired of thinking about all the shit I can’t control. Tired of feeling so goddamn helpless.

I lift my head and drive a harder punch into the bag, rolling my shoulders once before hitting it again, letting my body take over since my mind won’t shut the hell up.

I’m so far inside my own head I barely notice someone stepping up on the other side of the bag. Sam—one of the regulars here, short and stocky, with ridiculous biceps—catches it before it can swing back at me.

He leans around it, one brow cocked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Bag piss you off, or you just having a bad day?”

I don’t bother looking at him. Just grunt and let my fists answer for me. Jab, jab, cross.

Sam doesn’t seem put off. He steps back and folds his arms across his chest. “Someone’s in a mood,” he says, sweat dripping down his brow.

I keep punching, hoping he takes the hint and leaves me the hell alone.

“A bunch of us are going out tonight for Landon’s birthday,” he says, jerking his chin toward a group of guys over by the lockers. “You should come.”

I sigh under my breath and step back from the bag, peeling one glove off with my teeth before wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Been to enough clubs,” I mutter, yanking the other glove off too.