Page 193 of Terms of Exposure

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More like double third-wheeling on Damien and Emma's date.

Right?

I looked at myself in the mirror.

My face still a thousand calories too puffy.

Then I typed back a quick reply.

Me: Looking forward to it!

I hit send as another message popped in.

Garrett: You ugly fucking whore.

Why?

Why now?

I should have been used to it.

The messages came daily—sometimes hourly—cycling through the same tired rotation. Apologies. Threats. Declarations of love so desperate they curdled into something rancid.

This was a threat day, apparently.

My thumb hovered over the block button. I didn't press it.

Why?

I'd asked myself that a hundred times.

Maybe some sick part of you wanted to know when he was spiraling.

Wanted the warning.

A hurricane tracker with a mapped path meant you could escape it.

Another message slid in beneath last night's stream.

Garrett: That fucker jumped me.

Garrett: I'm pressing charges.

Garrett: You'll all pay for making me go through that bullshit.

I didn't disagree.

I'd seen the punch. The blood. The regret.

What I hadn't seen was Garrett.

I considered asking Emma.

But asking meant admitting.

His texts still showed as read.

And Emma would look at me with those worried eyes.

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