Despite growing up together, Catherine Simmons and Mattis Reed were never close.
Cat was inseparable from Mattis' younger sister, Chloé, while he was busy running around on the football field.
But when Cat's new dream drags her across the country du...
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It's almost midnight.
I've watched the minutes tick by every time I roll over and check my phone. The bright screen assault my hornets, and if I'm to believe all the smart science people, the blue light is probably trying to permanently alter my sleep schedule or something.
Yet I turn and toss, trying to fall asleep, and like a drug addict looking for a fix, I'm pulled to the phone, my fingers automatically finding the text messages.
It's a little pathetic.
It's only been four days since I saw Cat, and I feel like I'm going through withdrawal. And every time my body screams for a hit of Cat, I find our messages, rereading her cheeky replies, looking for hidden meaning, soaking up every emoji like it's her actual face beaming at me.
God, her smile.
I sound like an idiot.
My thumb hovers over her contact, the little heart I've put by her name taunting me.
She's not yours, nitwit.
But a tiny, minuscule, insignificant part of me sometimes wishes she were... Mine to touch, mine to kiss, mine to-
Let's not go there again. I don't think my right hand can take it anymore, and I'm one ejaculation away from permanently drying up my balls.
If my sister knew what I've done to fantasies of her best friend, she would murder me with a teaspoon. Just slowly hit me with the curved side for days until my body turns into one big bruise, and I die of internal bleeding.
There is a whole minefield of unspoken rules to navigate in my relationship with Chloé: Don't bring up football too much. Don't drink the last cup of coffee. Don't upset Mom. Don't mention Dad, ever.
But there is only one clearly established law: Don't touch Cat.
So I should turn off my phone and maybe uninvite her to the thing this weekend, and for the love of God, I should just go to sleep.
Therefore, I'm well aware that it's with my life on the line that I press the call button because I'm officially too strung out on barely restrained lust to think straight.
It rings three times before she picks up. "Hey." Cat's voice is low and hoarse, and there's a rustling in the background like she just turned over in her bed, and it isn't until this moment that I remember the time.
Idiot, you probably woke her up.
I blame my sleep-deprived brain.
"Were you sleeping, Kittycat?"
I don't know why my heart is beating so fast.
Maybe it's because I recall all those times as kids when I heard her sneaking out of Chloé's room in the middle of the night, shuffling into the kitchen. My sister sleeps like the dead, so I always knew it wasn't her. Sometimes I'd go check and find Cat on the couch, watching the TV with the volume all the way down. And I'd join her on the opposite side, watching whatever sitcom was on reruns. We'd sit there for hours, never sharing a word.
