Page 73 of Only Ever You
Rather than a thread full of messages, voice memos, photos, and videos, I find nothing.
He erased it all. Those years of friendship saved in the chat were my lifeline. Now, there’s nothing. Like it never existed.
Like we never existed.
Hands shaking, I lock my phone and push it into my pocket.
“Everything okay?” Dean asks softly.
I shake my head, breath stuttering, worried I’ll slip right into another panic attack. “Everything’s fine,” I choke out. “I dialed the wrong person. Tried to, at least. The call failed…thankfully.”
Wrong person. That term could never describe Michael. He’s the right one. Always has been. But he’s the one person I shouldn’t be calling. And if the way he ignored my attempts to talk after he broke his hand wasn’t enough, now, he’s made it crystal clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me.
“If a call doesn’t go through like that,” Dean says, “it usually means either the person’s number has changed, or your contact is blocked.” He dips his head and grimaces. “He could’ve done it by accident. My granny once blocked me by accident and then panicked because she couldn’t reach me.”
I smile, feigning indifference. “Yeah, that’s probably it.” Before I fall apart in front of Dean, I scrabble to my feet. “I should go. My uncle will be here soon, whether I call him or not.”
“Okay.” He stands and scoops up his gear. “It was nice to see you. Really.”
“You too.”
I walk away slowly at first, but when Dean disappears, I rush into the locker room and fall onto the bench. A strangled sound escapes my throat, but I quickly cover my mouth with my hand to silence my sobs.
Is Dean right? Is my number blocked? What other explanation is there?
Michael blocked me.
He erased our messages.
The pictures are still there. The videos too, saved to my phone. But our texts? Our voice memos? Gone.
He erased me.
I undress and drag myself into the shower, where I stand under the pouring water. I cry and cry until my lungs burn and I’m close to hyperventilating. Then, I quickly get dressed, dry my hair a little, and walk out to the parking lot.
When I climb into Uncle Tom’s SUV, he turns to look at me, brows pulled low, and pats my knee. “Rough day, sweetie?”
I nod.
He smiles softly. “I have just the thing to cure it.” He wiggles his brows. “Let’s pick up the best hot chocolate in Boston.”
Something inside me loosens, and I try to smile, finding I can, just a little. “I’d love to.”
Even as acceptance settles in the pit of my stomach.
Michael and I are really through.
We’re no one to each other.
part three
CHAPTER NINETEEN
but it can’t be her…right?
MICHAEL
Nineteen years old
