Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
My stomach knots.
She had me. She. Fucking. Had. Me.
Why does she feel the need to… to… keep looking. What was I, just a pit stop? A placeholder? A mistake she’s now actively trying to swipe out of her memory?
My throat tightens. I scroll through her photos even though it makes me feel like shit. Her in that sundress. Her at the beach. Her laughing at something off-camera.
I’ve wondered how her new apartment is for three weeks, not giving myself the permission to reach out, not wanting to come off as thirsty or desperate.
A harmless inquiry wouldn’t kill either of us, eh? And if she ignores me, then I know…
I shouldn’t care that she’s swiping on the apps. That she’s possibly meeting someone else. Possibly laughing at someone else’s stupid jokes. Possibly curled up in someone else’s sweatshirt that doesn’t fit her nearly as well as mine did.
I slam my eyes shut. Because now I’m imagining that guy. The one she’s swiping right on.
I sit up too fast and Nugget jolts from his spot at the foot of the bed, staring at me like I’m unstable. Which, fair.
This is pathetic.
I’m not this guy. I don’t pine.
I grab my phone again. Open her profile.
And this time, I don’t just stare.
I type.
thirty-four
. . .
Turner: Hey stranger. How’s it been going?
Poppy: Hi you! I was just thinking about you.
Turner: Yeah? Thinking about texting me—or just thinking?
Poppy: Undecided.
Turner: It’s been three weeks, Poppy. You moved out while I was gone. No heads-up. No note. Nothing. Did I do something????
Poppy: You didn’t do anything. You were perfect. You ARE perfect…
Turner: I don’t know what that means. And the fact that I have to message you through a dating app because we haven’t been speaking. It makes no fucking sense.
Poppy: You want the truth?
Turner: Yes.
Poppy: I didn’t know how to say goodbye to you—I figured disappearing would be cleaner. I was wrong.
Turner: Yeah, you are.
Poppy: I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Turner. I was trying to protect myself.
Turner: From ME???
Poppy: I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would matter.
Turner: You didn’t think I would care?? You’re wrong about that, too. Cause I do care and honestly I’m super butt-hurt about it.
Poppy: I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t matter. I panicked. You were becoming everything to me, and that scared the shit out of me.
Turner: So instead of talking to me, you ghosted me. Got it. Real emotionally mature, Poppy.
Poppy: I know I fucked up. You don’t have to keep twisting the knife!
Turner: I’m not trying to twist anything—I’m here with a knife already in me, wondering how the hell it got there.
Poppy: I thought maybe if I left first, it would hurt less.
Turner: Did it?
Poppy: No. Not even a little.
Poppy: Listen, can we not argue about this?
Turner: No one is arguing. But I have the right to say my piece. You completely pulled the rug out from under me.
Poppy: You’re right. You do have that right. Say what you need to say, Turner.
Turner: I needed a damn conversation. A warning. Something.
Poppy: I didn’t think you’d want me to stay if I told you how I really felt.
Turner: I don’t know how to interpret that. How did you really feel?
Poppy: Like every second I spent with you made me want more. More mornings. More laughs. More you—and it terrified me because I didn’t think you saw me the same way.
Turner: Jesus, Poppy. You think I let just anyone stay up watching shitty documentaries in my bed? You think I casually let someone into every corner of my life?
Poppy: I don’t KNOW, Turner, okay? You’re hard to read! I’ve been hurt before and didn’t want to be the idiot who fell harder than she should have.
Turner: So instead, you made me the idiot.
Poppy: I do NOT think you’re an idiot.
Turner: Maybe not—but I feel like one.
Poppy: I repeat: I DO NOT think you’re an idiot, Turner. If I’m being honest, I think you’re everything. Which is probably somehow worse.
Turner: Worse how?
Poppy: You make my stomach flip like I’m a seventeen-year-old teenager with a crush.
Turner: You have a crush on me? Awww, that’s adorable.
Poppy: I had a crush. Now it’s a full-blown emotional crisis.
Turner: That’s hot.
Poppy: Knock it off LOL
Turner: Emotional disasters are kind of my type. Especially ones with great boobs and that thing you do with your mouth…
Poppy: You would bring that up.
Turner: The sight of you in my kitchen that first morning damn near killed me, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
Poppy: Can I make a confession?
Turner: Obviously
Poppy: I stole one of your T-shirts and have been sleeping in it. Is that weird?
Turner: Uh, no. But I’m going to need a photo. For spank bank purposes since you’re no longer speaking to me.
Poppy: Oh, it’s like that? We’re speaking to each other NOW.