Beep. The phone alert almost makes me jump out of my skin. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m rather on edge at the moment, more so than I’ve been for some time. Confusion mixed with guilt sure is a funny concoction. I stare at my phone from across the room, willing myself to get out of bed and go read the stupid message. But I don’t want to. Like, I do … but mainly, I don’t. I guesstimate it’ll take me at least five minutes to pull myself together before I can bear to look at it. And honestly, I don’t know why I’m putting myself through this crap because I don’t actually care who it’s from. Well, I do. But I don’t. Urgh. Breathe, Laura, breathe. The problem is, there are only two possibilities, and it’s that annoying little thought that’s turning my insides into a nitty, knotty knot! Possibility 1—the guy I wanna run away with. Possibility 2—the guy I’m possibly going to marry for no other reason than my own stupidity.
