Texting With the Enemy (Digital Dating #1) - Marika Ray Page 0,41

and over in the silence. Well, crap. Maybe my relief was premature. He looked downright angry. Then he ran a hand over his forehead and dropped it to the table, his thumb stroking across the back of my hand.

“Please don’t apologize, El. You have nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes seemed to sag at the corners and my heart dipped. This felt an awful lot like the beginning of a breakup. I should know. I’d had more of those than successful dates. I opened my mouth to apologize again, because what says really sorry than two or three apologies back to back like a whiny child? But he beat me to it.

“In fact, I’m the one who needs to apologize to you. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to tell you, but for the life of me, I couldn't do it. I couldn't stand the idea of you being hurt.” He tugged on his collar again while I frowned in confusion. “You see, I saw you and Chad at the wine festival. When I caught up with him afterward, he told me you asked for his number.”

My face burned. Boston had known this whole time I was texting with Chad? Shoot me now. I should have suspected. They were friends, after all. Chad had probably been telling Boston all about our texts.

“I didn’t want him around you, because even back then I worried about you more than I should. And when he gave you his number?”

I waited. Whatever was coming next couldn’t be good.

“He didn’t,” he said quietly.

“He did,” I argued, even though I was starting to realize something was very wrong here.

“He didn’t. He gave you mine.”

My mind spun. What?

“He told me right after that he gave you my number. I had no idea what to do about it and when you texted me later that night, I didn’t want to ghost you like Chad probably would have done.”

Boston stilled his thumb at the same time as the words dried up. He swallowed hard. His gaze burned into mine, both of us waiting for my brain to kick into gear and get caught up to speed with what he was trying to tell me. Problem was, that same sentence just kept spinning round and round my brain, making me dizzy and making it impossible to do the math. Chad gave me Boston’s number?

“So . . .” I began, cutting myself off when the lines in Boston’s forehead deepened.

Oh. Oh no. That’s why Boston wouldn’t give me his phone number. I already had it. So, that meant I’d been texting with Boston this whole time?

I gasped and sat back, the sudden lurch shaking all the silverware on the table, which was fitting because my entire emotional world was shaken too. Rocked. Off kilter. Tumbling down in a domino effect of lies.

The sounds of the restaurant around me faded. Every line I’d ever texted Chad—or Boston . . . this was so confusing—was now running through my head with little internal gasps of horror and crushing shame. Every line he’d texted back. Those compliments that had made me feel good about myself. Lies. Everything was a lie.

Oddly, the only thing to permeate my unfolding humiliation was a familiar song. Sung completely out of context and at the wrong time of year. I blinked and five servers appeared huddled by our table, clapping hands, and belting out the Happy Birthday song at the top of their lungs with smiles on their faces. One even had a party hat strapped to her head like a maniacal toddler-woman hopped up on cake and frosting. The entire restaurant was looking our way. Could a person die from a single, massive dose of humiliation?

“No, no, you’ve got it wrong.” Boston half stood from his seat, waving his hands wildly to be understood over the rousing well wishes. “Wrong table, wrong table.”

They came to a halting stop on “dear Abigail” and looked at each other in confusion. A lady two tables over stood up. “Abigail’s over here!”

The servers shuffled over and began to sing again, like they hadn’t just interrupted a truth bomb moment at the worst possible time. I looked down at the table and in rising panic, realized my eyes were burning. I was about three seconds away from crying. I had to get out of here so I could escape that sad, pitying look on Boston’s face. Somewhere I could unravel everything that happened and make some sense out of