I thought the first week after the breakup was hard, but damn, it had nothing on this one.
Why can’t Mason leave me alone? Did he not listen to anything I said last week?
No, the stubborn fool keeps trying to talk to me, and Em says he’s come around our dorm looking for me more often.
Most of the school is still speculating on Instagram regarding the status of our relationship, and when I asked him if he could denounce us on his page, he responded by posting a picture of a red jersey-style t-shirt that read I have no life. My boyfriend plays football. In between the two sentences was a big cheerleading bow with a large 87 in the middle.
Mason laughed in my face when I confronted him about it.
“What?” He shrugs. “I didn’t post your picture, or say your name. Hell, I didn’t even write a caption. It was vague-booking at its finest.”
I slapped him across the face, and even now the memory of the sound being loud enough to be heard over the din of students hustling to class is enough to have my lips twitching. Then the jerk had to ruin it by chuckling when I stormed off. He even had the gall to wink at me when I chose to take a seat in a row different from our usual spot and between two other classmates so he couldn’t sit with me.
“Should I be afraid you’re gonna kick my ass from one end of the blue mat to the other tonight?” T points to the Repeat after me: YES COACH tank I have on.
Shoulder-checking my locker shut, I sit on the bench and tie my cheer shoes. “Remember how earlier, you were all gushy and calling Mason the ‘perfect book boyfriend’ like one of those romance novels you devour?”
T visibly swallows, and I can’t help but smirk, which only has her blue eyes widening.
Can we mess with her? Just a little bit? *pinches fingers together* She’s been bombarding us with all her lovey-dovey, hopeless romantic stuff—which I think you should listen to, but who am I, right? *holds hand up* Let’s have some fun with the little sister.
I ignore the dig about letting myself be with Mason but ultimately let T off the hook, jerking my chin toward the locker room door. She has been too crucial of a person in keeping the overwhelming depression and panic from winning and pulling me under fully like it did back in high school.
“Fine.” T slings an arm around my shoulder as we walk across the mat to find a space to stretch. “But while I’m icing whatever new bruises I end up getting tonight, we”—she bounces a finger between us, as if I could misunderstand who she’s referring to—“are watching A Cinderella Story.”
I groan. Of course she picks a movie where the hero is a football player.
“Kay.” Coach Kris steps out of her office onto the gym floor, and I’m instantly on alert because she didn’t use my nickname. Then when she turns to reenter the office, every hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I hastily follow her in.
“A courier delivered that a few minutes ago.” She points at a black, white, and green Peter Pan gift bag with a stunning rendition of my tattoo on it. “Has your name on it.”
My breath catches at the sight. I don’t need to see the card to know exactly who it’s from, but Coach’s smile has me suspecting she has looked at it.
Mason strikes again.
Why can’t he just let me go? Did I not slap him hard enough?
You should have kneed him in the balls. *demonstrates how to do the defensive move* Men tend to get the message loud and clear when you go after their junk.
“OH MY GOD!” T squeals in my ear. “It that what I think it is?”
She knows all about the shirts, but this is about to be the first time she’s witnessed me receiving one.
I dig my knuckles into the ridge of my brow. This is the perfect storm to bring out Tessa’s teenybopper side. I nod because I can’t seem to find my voice.
T traces the outline of Peter down to Wendy, captivated by the illustration. “Wow,” she says breathily. “This is gorgeous, PF. Maybe you should think about adding some green shading around your tat.”
“Funny, T. Can we focus on something else please?”
Dammit, Mason.
I bring a hand to my ear, rubbing over the area where I’m inked. I never even told him the full significance of the tattoo and yet he still knew to use it…what? Against me?
I think maybe he might be conferring with T on the side. His romantic gestures are only getting better.
“No way, sis. You have to open this now.”
Grrrr. I hate when she pulls the “sis” card, because 99.9% of the time it gets her what she wants.
“No.”
“Oh come on,” she whines, peeking through the tissue paper sticking out of the bag.
“No way.” I need to stand firm on this.
Unfortunately, she’s too used to dealing with me and continues to paw at the gift.
“OH MY GOD!” T screams then jumps up and down.
I’m almost afraid to ask what garnered such an animated reaction, but we all know I must.
“What…is…it?” I struggle to get the words out.
T turns to me, hands over her heart, stars in her eyes.
“There’s a ring box in there.” She whispers the words like she’s afraid the item will disappear if she speaks too loudly.
My brain shuts down, my whole world stopping like Zack Morris called timeout to the camera.
No.
No way.
Just no way.
There’s not a ring box in
