Page 181 of Just One More Thing

Jake.

A photo from a practice field. Helmet off. Sun on his face. White shirt stretched across his shoulders. One hand on his hip. The other holding a football.

For one irrational second, I think maybe it’s old. Somebody posting a throwback.

Then I read the caption.

It’s from three hours ago.

Jake Wheeler returns to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

My stomach drops so hard it feels physical.

Not metaphorical.

Actual organ movement.

I stare at the screen. Jake. Back with the Bucs. Back where he started. Back where he was supposed to be.

I should feel relief. This is what I wanted, right? Jake getting what he deserves.

My thumb drifts over the screen to touch him.

Instead, I like the post.

“Shit.”

I was just here to lurk. Not like.

I stab at the screen and unlike it, but the notification probably already went through. Maybe he doesn’t check them. Maybe notifications don’t go to the collaborators.

Maybe I’m just an idiot.

I toss the phone onto the table like it bit me.

Jake’s with the Bucs again.

My leaving was meant to be.

That thought should comfort me.

It doesn’t.

My phone vibrates. I don’t pick it up. I know it’s not who I want it to be, so I don’t care who it is.

It keeps vibrating until it skitters off the table and lands facedown on the floor.

There’s a metaphor.

I reach for the remote instead and turn on the TV, volume low. I scroll through the guide, hoping the perfect distraction exists in a box somewhere, just waiting for me to click on it.

Runaway Bride.

No.

When Harry Met Sally.

Absolutely not.