Betty
His hands were still on my waist, his breath hot against my ear. Everything else faded. The voices downstairs, the music, even my own doubts—it all fell quiet. For a second, I forgot what it was like to feel ashamed. I wasn’t thinking about the way my stomach folded when I sat down or how my thighs touched or whether anyone would laugh at me behind their hands.
All I felt was the pressure of Marcus’s chest against mine and the way his lips moved slowly over mine, like he didn’t want to stop. Like I wasn’t a dare. Like I wasn’t just a body taking up space.
He kissed me again, slower this time, and his fingers grazed up the length of my back. I felt a sound catch in my throat, but I didn’t say it aloud. I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I didn’t want him to let go.
For once, I felt wanted. Not tolerated. Not pitied. Wanted. I felt… enough.
Then the door burst open.
“Time’s up, lovebirds,” Vel shouted from the hall. “Break it up before we hear moaning from downstairs.”
Marcus groaned and rested his forehead against mine for a beat before stepping back. My cheeks burned. I smoothed my shirt down and tried not to look too rattled, even though my heart was pounding. He grabbed my hand again as we walked out and didn’t let go all the way down the stairs.
Back in the living room, the game had picked up again. Pillows had shifted, drinks had been refilled, and someone had started playing a different playlist that bounced between party tracks and random slow jams.
Vel was up next. Kate leaned back against me, both of us cross-legged, still catching our breath from all the emotional whiplash.
“Truth or dare?” someone called.
“Truth,” Vel said with a lazy grin, his arms spread across the back of the couch like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Who’s the hottest girl in the room?”
Everyone turned toward Stacey like it was a default answer. She smiled, expectant, lips glossed to perfection. I could feel her confidence radiating like heat off her skin.
Vel smirked. “Kate.”
The room went still.
Kate blinked. Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink, and she immediately ducked her head. I nudged her with my elbow, and she rolled her eyes—but she was smiling.
“Whatever,” she whispered. “He’s drunk.”
“Still counts,” I whispered back.
Stacey’s face didn’t change. Not right away. But something in her jaw tightened. She laughed, too loud, and tossed her hair over her shoulder like she didn’t care. But I saw her knuckles go white against her cup.
The bottle spun again.
Marcus.
“Dare!” someone shouted.
Vel leaned forward, grinning like he had just been waiting for this. “Send a risky message,” he said. “To Coach.”
“What kind of message?” Marcus asked, amused, sitting forward.
“Tell him you’re quitting. Right now. Screenshot it.”
The room exploded in laughter. Someone tossed a pillow at Marcus. “C’mon, man! Live a little!”
Marcus hesitated, laughing, fingers hovering over his phone.
“Let’s make it spicy,” someone else yelled. “Put it on the screen!”
Kate, giggling, grabbed the HDMI cord from the TV stand and handed it to him. “Be brave, Mitchell.”
He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but he plugged in his phone. The screen mirrored up onto the flatscreen.
We all leaned in. There it was—his messages, his keyboard, his text to Coach halfway typed:
“Coach, I’m done. Quitting the team.”
There were gasps and hollers, a chant starting somewhere: Do it! Do it! Do it!
My stomach twisted with secondhand anxiety. I watched his thumb hover over the screen.
Then it happened.
A notification dropped from the top of the screen.
From: Dad.
Everyone went quiet. It was like someone had cut the power to the room.
“Good job with the fat girl. I’m proud of you.”
Silence.
I blinked. Maybe I read it wrong. Maybe I didn’t see what I thought I saw.
But no. It was still there, glowing on the screen. Ten words. Ten knives.
Good job with the fat girl. I’m proud of you.
No one said anything.
I didn’t breathe.
I felt my face flush, then go cold. My stomach flipped, and not in a good way. Not like earlier.
I was suddenly very aware of every part of my body. The softness of my arms, the way my shirt clung to my back. My thighs pressed together, my stomach folded when I sat. I wanted to scream. Or run. Or disappear.
The room hadn’t moved yet. Everyone was still staring. On the screen. At me.
I looked at Marcus.
He was frozen, jaw slack, staring at his phone like he couldn’t believe it either.
Someone—Vel, maybe—finally laughed, awkward and quiet, like maybe it was a joke.
But it wasn’t.
I stood up.
My chair scraped loudly against the floor. The sound snapped people out of their daze.
“Betty—” Marcus said, standing too, reaching for me.
I backed away. “Don’t.”
“Wait, I didn’t—” he tried, his voice breaking, but I couldn’t hear it. Not over the blood rushing in my ears.
Everyone was watching. Every eye in the room. I couldn’t breathe.
“I have to go,” I said.