Page 174 of Reckless Obsession

I came back because I thought Tristan would be here. I sat on the couch for hours with the television on low, pretending to watch a movie while checking my phone every five minutes. I waited until my eyes started burning, until the clock on the wall became insulting, until exhaustion finally dragged me into bed fully dressed.

Dragging myself out of bed, I try not to let anger wash over me. But it does. It starts low beneath my ribs, hot and familiar. Not the loud kind but the worse kind. The type that makes every unanswered notification feel personal.

I head for the bathroom, still groggy, hair probably a mess, mouth dry enough to make brushing my teeth feel like a survival task.

I call Tristan as I squeeze toothpaste onto my brush. The call rings until it goes to voicemail.

I stare at the screen.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter around the toothbrush.

I call again.

Nothing.

By the time I start brushing properly, I’m typing with one hand.

What the hell, Tristan.

Then, because apparently I have no self-respect before caffeine:

I know you’re alive and doing well, so why the fuck aren’t you picking up my calls or replying to my messages?

Delivered.

No response.

I rinse, spit, and stare at my own reflection in the mirror.

I look irritated.

Worse, I look worried.

That annoys me enough to send another message.

If you’re ignoring me because you’re busy, just say that.

You’re a grown man, not a Victorian widow disappearing into the fog whenever life gets inconvenient.

Delivered.

Still nothing.

My insides tighten, and I hate how quickly my mind begins to build stories out of that silence. I stare at the phone another second before opening my messages again.

I don’t text in the group chat.

Lucas had a horrible therapy session yesterday. A major breakdown. He’d barely spoken afterward, and I know Lucas well enough to understand that when he goes quiet like that, he needs space more than he needs someone else dumping their emotional disaster on him.

I don’t want to add my shit to his.

So I choose the next-best option: messaging Tyler privately.

Hey ty, are you awake?

I wash my face, run cold water through my hair, and by the time I straighten up, my phone buzzes against the counter.

I grab it immediately.