Missy
Luke’s invitation remained on my screen long after I should have answered.
LUKE: There’s a game next week. Come with me.
I read it again.
Then once more, as though the words might change if I stared long enough.
They did not.
A hockey game.
Of all the places he could have suggested, he had chosen an arena.
I sat cross-legged on my bed with my laptop open beside me and an unfinished assignment pushed toward the edge of the mattress. My baking notes were spread across the blanket, but I had not written anything in nearly twenty minutes.
My phone felt heavier in my hand.
I typed a reply.
ME: Which game?
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
LUKE: A good one.
I frowned.
ME: That is not an answer.
LUKE: I know.
ME: Which teams?
He took longer this time.
LUKE: D
