Meant To Be (The Callahans #4) - Monica Murphy Page 0,19

were dancing with guys from the football team. Jake and Hannah snuck off somewhere. Cami and Diego made a big entrance, causing the room to ripple with gossip. Jocelyn, Diego’s very recent, very long-term ex, didn’t bother making an appearance.

Word on the street is she’s pregnant. I really hope that’s not the case.

Marty and his new boyfriend showed up about halfway through the night, and they sat with me for a while. But I was such a sad sack, they took off, so they could go dance, and I couldn’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to be around me either.

They make a cute couple.

The drive home was uneventful. I know Jake resented me telling Mom when the dance got out. He didn’t have much time to be with Hannah before we had to head back to the house. He didn’t talk to me the entire ride, and I didn’t either. It was only then that I checked my phone and spotted the texts from Eli.

Talk about giving me hope. And now I sit here, waiting.

Because he still hasn’t responded. And it’s killing me. Where is he? What’s going on? I have no idea how long everyone stayed at his house and partied. Maybe he’s still sleeping it off. He looked really drunk in one story I watched.

I scroll through all the Instagram stories, hoping to catch a glimpse of Eli. There are a lot of photos and videos from last night, both from our dance and the party at Eli’s house. There’s a video of Wyatt and I dancing, which I hope Eli didn’t see. We look awkward anyway, though there’s a caption on the video that says: I predict this is the new couple of the year.

Um no.

There’s a story on Snapchat that makes me sit up in bed and re-watch it. There’s something happening in the background and I bring my phone up closer, squinting at it. Eli is sitting in a chair all by himself. And this gorgeous girl, wearing a really short dress, is literally grinding her butt against his crotch.

He’s watching her shifting ass with an amazed expression on his stupidly handsome face like he’s in a trance. Raised eyebrows, lips slightly parted, gaze locked on her swiveling hips. Perhaps he likes what he sees?

My heart cracks. Like, my chest literally hurts. I press my palm against it, as if that could put my heart back together, but it’s no use. The pain radiates, streaming through my blood, into my bones, and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to catch my breath.

The pain mixes with anger too. It’s a powerful surge of emotion that leaves me shaking.

I want to kill Eli Bennett with my bare hands.

Rage filling me, I exit out of the story and go to my text messages, my fingers flying as I type out my message to Eli.

Too busy with that girl you were with last night to respond to me? I hope she fu—

Pausing, I backspace on every single word I just wrote, until there’s nothing. Just a blinking cursor. I can’t respond to him. Not like this. Not right now. Not while I’m so freaking angry. Is he really with that girl?

Maybe not.

Should I care?

Absolutely. He ended it with me less than two days ago and sent me texts last night that basically said he still wants me. Then he gets a lap dance from some girl who probably ended up in his bed. Or maybe with her lips wrapped around his…

No. I can’t even imagine it. Let alone think the words.

God. Eli Bennett is beyond infuriating.

“Ava! Breakfast is ready!” my mom calls from downstairs.

With a sigh, I grab a velvet scrunchie from my bedside table, twisting my hair into a messy bun, before I exit my room and head down the stairs. Dad and Beck are already sitting at the table. Jake is grabbing a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. Mom is currently piling a bunch of French toast slices on a platter.

Hmm. My favorite breakfast. This feels like a setup. At the very least, vaguely suspicious.

“Sit, sit,” Mom commands when she sees me standing there, contemplating if I should stay or go. “I made your favorites.”

“I see that,” I say, as I go to the table and settle into my usual seat. “Why?”

“Can’t I make my daughter her favorite breakfast?” Mom asks, as she brings over a plate with freshly cooked bacon piled on it to the table.

“You sleep well?” Dad asks me, his