Chapter 23: Phoeb-ish
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the words finally sank in.
’Someone said they might’ve seen Conor Lesnar.’
The temperature in the room dropped, like someone had cracked a window open in winter. My blanket, once warm and safe, suddenly felt too heavy, like it was pinning me down. I clawed it off, needing air, needing space, but even that didn’t help. My chest ached. I stared at the phone in Megan’s hand, hoping I’d misheard. But the words just kept echoing.
Conor Lesnar.
The name alone made my stomach clench and twist. A low pulse started behind my temples, and I gripped the edge of my mattress, steadying myself like the floor might give out.
Megan was still frozen, her thumb hovering over the screen. "You okay?"
"No." My voice came out rougher than I expected. "No, I’m not." I forced myself upright, back stiff, breath shallow.
The door creaked open.
Phoebe walked in, her presence a splash of color in the gray haze that had overtaken the room. She wore a faded hoodie and oversized basketball shorts that looked suspiciously like Keith’s. Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, maybe from leftover eyeliner. She didn’t look at us right away.
"Well, good morning to you too," she said dryly, tossing her bag onto her bed. "I guess you two just decided to ghost us after the party?"
Megan’s shoulders tensed beside me, her body shrinking into itself. I didn’t say anything. My thoughts were still scrambled, stuck somewhere between disbelief and dread.