Page 2 of Played
Where are you?
Did you leave work yet?
Are you ignoring me?
I can see you read these
ANSWER ME
I grab the phone and switch it to silent, tossing it back onto the passenger seat. The screen lights up with his incoming call.
The car suddenly feels too small, like it's shrinking around me.
Why is he tracking my read receipts? Why can't I have twenty minutes to decompress after work without him breathing down my neck?
I pull back into traffic. What I need isn't just sugar—it's also space.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I force myself to focus on the road ahead.
I pull into the convenience store lot and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. When did I become this person? Jumping whenever my phone buzzes, calculating my responses to avoid his moods, mentally tracking my minutes away from home?
Last week, Daniel questioned why I'd taken an extra twenty minutes getting home from the grocery store. He'd checked the receipt timestamps. The week before, he'd installed a "safetyapp" on my phone that just happened to share my location with him at all times.
"For emergencies," he'd said.
The convenience store's fluorescent lights beckon. I step out of my Mini and lock it, the chirp echoing across the nearly empty parking lot. Inside, I wander the aisles aimlessly, savoring this small pocket of freedom.
I grab a pack of Twizzlers—my guilty pleasure.
The fluorescent lights hum as I make a beeline for the back wall, where the refrigerated drinks glow behind glass doors.
The cool air hits my face as I swing open the fridge door. Cherry Coke? Regular? My fingers hover between bottles when I notice him.
He stands maybe three feet away, tall and dressed entirely in black. His profile is something out of a magazine—strong jaw, perfect nose, thick eyelashes. When he reaches for a drink, his fitted t-shirt rides up slightly.
Damn.
Part of an intricate tattoo snakes around his forearm—piano keys that transform into music notes that become something abstract and beautiful. I catch myself staring, wondering how far up his shoulder the design travels.
He grabs a Pepsi, and before I can stop myself, I smile.
"Looks like we're mortal enemies," I say, my voice louder than intended in the quiet store.
He turns, eyebrows raised in confusion, and—oh. Those eyes. Deep brown, almost black, rimmed with thick lashes, and suddenly I'm conscious of how I must look after an eight-hour shift at the pool hall.
"The drinks," I clarify, pointing to his Pepsi, then to the Coke in my hand. "I'm a die-hard Coca-Cola fan."
His confusion melts into a smile that transforms his entire face. Tiny crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. A dimple I hadn't noticed before deepens in his left cheek.
"Ah, I see." His voice is soft, melodic. "That's serious business. Cola wars and all."
"I'm basically a Coke addict," I say, then immediately flush. "I mean—the soda. Obviously."
He laughs—a genuine, warm sound that makes something flutter in my chest. Our eyes lock for a moment too long, something electric passing between us. The connection feels so sudden, so unexpected, that I almost drop my bottle.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely toward another aisle, suddenly needing space from whatever just happened. "Candy. I need more candy. These Twizzlers aren't going to be enough."
I retreat to the candy aisle, my heart beating faster than it has any right to.
