Betty
The car ride home smelled like leather seats, cinnamon gum, and Stacey’s overpriced perfume—the kind that tried too hard to smell like success. I was wedged in the backseat beside her, practically inhaling the scent of whatever citrus nightmare she'd doused herself in before the game. Our thighs barely touched, but I still felt like I was being suffocated by proximity.
I leaned toward the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass and pretending not to replay every second of that kiss. Or the second one. Or the way Marcus looked at me after. I hadn’t even meant to smile, but there it was—a huge, stupid, can’t-hide-it grin stretching across my face.
Marcus Mitchell kissed me.
Twice.
And not because someone dared him to. Not because of a prank or a bet or a bored moment between practices. Because he wanted to. Because he said I was “unexpected.” Because something in his eyes said maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t pretending.
I glanced down at my phone. Nothing from him yet. But my fingers hovered like I was waiting to catch a message as it fell from the sky.
Then—buzz.
A DM.
Marcus Mitchell: _"Made it home. You still dazed or did the magic wear off?"
My stomach flipped. I bit my lip to keep from squealing and typed back:
Me: _"Still dizzy. Might sue for emotional whiplash."
Before I could hit send, Stacey shifted beside me. Her voice was sweet, but only on the surface. “What are you smiling at?”
I clicked my phone off like it had betrayed me. “Just a meme.”
Too slow.
She leaned over just enough to be obvious. I could feel her eyes try to scan my phone screen, the warmth of her breath turning sharp against my ear.
“Was that Marcus?”
Her tone dropped to a syrupy hiss—sticky, poisonous.
I didn’t answer. Just stared out the window like it held answers. The rows of streetlights blurred past, warm and indifferent.
“Interesting,” she murmured, sitting back with the stiff poise of someone who’d just loaded ammo into her favorite weapon. “Very interesting.”
We pulled into the driveway a few minutes later. My dad killed the engine. I bolted from the car before anyone could ask me anything, keys still jingling in his hand as I slammed the front door.
Upstairs, in the safety of my tiny room, I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath the entire way home. The lights were still off. I didn’t bother turning them on. I dropped onto the bed and hugged my phone to my chest.
Did he mean it? Any of it?
I stared at the screen. Still no new messages. I opened Instagram again, rereading the last thing he’d sent like it might reveal some deeper truth.
Marcus Mitchell: _"Made it home. You still dazed or did the magic wear off?"
That had to mean something, right?
I opened my vlogging app and hit record.
“Okay,” I whispered, the phone’s glow softening my face. “This is the part in the movie where the awkward girl gets kissed by the hot guy, and for once, she doesn’t trip over her shoelaces or apologize for existing.”
I paused, studying my reflection in the screen. I still had game-day hair—frizzy at the edges, windblown. My cheeks were pink. Lips slightly swollen. And yeah, the braces were still there. But I didn’t hate what I saw.
“Tonight, I felt... wanted,” I said. “Not pitied. Not ignored. Just... seen.”
I tapped save.
Not post.
This moment wasn’t for likes or views. It was mine. A tiny, fragile victory I wasn’t ready to share.
I flopped onto my pillow, phone still clutched in both hands, thumbs hovering over the screen like a prayer. I kept refreshing my messages, watching the timestamp on Marcus’s last DM like it might change on its own.
Nothing.
Maybe he fell asleep.
Maybe he was in the shower.
Maybe... maybe I imagined all of it.
I curled into my blanket, blinking up at the ceiling. The grin was gone now. I wasn’t sure when it had disappeared.
I turned my phone face-down on the nightstand and rolled over, heart twisting.
His name never lit up my screen again that night.