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Jesus, why didn’t that man know basic etiquette?
I furiously yanked on a soft t-shirt, one that’d once belonged to Quinn, and his Colleyville High School Football sweatshirt.
I glared at it as I pulled it on, remembering a time when I hadn’t been able to wear it as I stormed out of the house and to my car.
“Please, please, please?” I begged.
“No, baby. I can’t. The coaches would lose their shit,” he said. “They straight up said, do not give these sweatshirts to your girlfriends. They’re part of our uniforms for Fridays.”
He sounded apologetic, that was something, right?
“Fine,” I grumbled.
That was the first time Quinn Carter disappointed me.
The day after I’d asked him if I could wear his sweatshirt, I’d walked out of my freshman Spanish I class and had seen a girl wearing it. I’d felt my entire heart all but seize at the sight.
The girl, Lita James, was in all of Quinn’s senior classes.
I’d hated her ever since.
When I’d confronted Quinn between classes, he’d winced.
His ‘she was cold’ hadn’t been good enough of an answer for me, and I hadn’t spoken to him for days after.
Even worse, he never got that sweatshirt back.
I had, though.
A couple of years later, I’d seen her wearing it out and about with a friend.
I’d reacted badly at seeing her wearing it and demanded she give it to me.
She had, reluctantly, and I’d never spoken to her again.
She’d spread rumors amongst our high school friends, so there was no way that Quinn hadn’t heard about it.
Speaking of Quinn, he called again, and I scoffed.
There was no way I was talking to him now, not after being reminded of him letting Lita wear this sweatshirt when he hadn’t given me the same opportunity. What made it even worse was knowing that I was his girlfriend, and she was just some rando chick who wanted to bang him.
I started driving to the movie theater not far from my house, my thoughts dark.
My phone rang again as I pulled into the parking spot at the theater that was closest to the gas station next door, and I shot a glare at the phone.
I ignored the call and stared at the blinking sign that kept switching between the cash price for diesel, and the card price.
My phone rang a third time, and since I didn’t recognize the number, I answered it.
I shouldn’t have.
“Don’t hang up,” Quinn ordered.
I hung up.
Then I silenced my phone before marking that number in my phonebook as ‘Quinn.’
Nobody would be calling me tonight.
