Page 231 of Daddy's Pride

“The one with the hot waitresses?” Ryan grinned. “I’m in. Owen?”

“Thanks, but, um, not this time,” I said, waving them off and ignoring the way my stomach grumbled at me for it.

But I had ramen in the cupboards, too much homework waiting to get done tonight, and too many bills to be eating out and paying for Ubers all the time… plus a gnawing worry worse than being hungry, that maybe I’d never be able to dig myself out of what felt like the sinkhole of my life.

Which was so dumb. I had a full scholarship, a free place to live, and nothing to complain about.

But still, what if I was never in a position to have the dog I wanted?

I mean, at least I’d get to work with them someday.

Unless, as my grades seemed to reflect lately, maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a veterinarian after all?

I grabbed a pillow and smooshed it over my face, muffling my frustrated groan. I honestly had no idea what else I’d even do if I couldn’t be a vet, but if I did flunk out—which I couldn’t, I would die—but if I did, well, I might have to figure it out.

Settle for a job I hated.

My heart started to race, my anxiety starting to peak, so I quickly dropped the pillow and ignored my textbook, snatching up my phone instead.

And then, just like an addict, I opened the text thread with Gay Daddy again.

I knew it was dumb—and beyond weird—that I kept re-reading it. That I kept thinking about him even though he was a total stranger, and a guy, and way older than me.

And had probably forgotten all about me by now.

Because yes, he’d been super nice. And also yes, when he’d messaged me out of the blueagain, days after our first accidental, embarrassing-but-also-kind-of-great conversation, just to make sure I’d gotten home alright, I’d felt fluttery and excited and weirdly happy to hear from him. Happy that someone cared.

But clearly he’d either just been being polite… or else, after he’d been nice enough to check up on me, I’d scared him off by the absolute dumpster fire of spammy messages I’d assaulted him with in response.

Either way, that had been the end of it.

I hadn’t heard from him since.

So I should really delete the whole thread and just forget about it all, not constantly look at the part where he’d called me a “good boy” whenever I started to feel too overwhelmed by things, like right now. Not let his praise over my good manners soothe away some of the anxiety I felt about whether or not I could handle all this adulting. And definitely not pretend that all his laughing emojis meant he’d actually enjoyed chatting with me, because I had written evidence right in front of me of just how cringeworthy I’d been, even if at least some of that had been thanks to all the pricey drinks I’d had the first time we’d talked.

Not that I had that excuse the second time.

I rubbed my forehead, dropping the phone. That drink tab I’d run up at the club was another reason I’d be stuck with ramen for the rest of the month. Or at least until the guys caught up on their rent.

“No whining,” I whispered out loud, repeating one of my dad’s favorite phrases as I slumped down and hugged the pillow to my chest.

The reminder didn’t really help though, and my eyes strayed to my phone again.

I didn’t know why reading all of Gay Daddy’s messages did seem to help when it all started to feel too much, but did I have to understand it, when it worked? And really, what would the point in deleting the thread be when, embarrassingly, I’d already read through the whole conversation so many times that I’d basically memorized it?

Like the part where he said he had a job he liked.

He obviously hadn’t settled.

Maybe he’d have some tips?

I sat up and grabbed my phone again, getting a sudden surge of energy. And before I could talk myself out of it, I did what I’d been stopping myself from doing all week and sent off a new message.

MONDAY 4:49 PM

Hi! It’s me. Um, Owen?

Oh, but I’m not sure I gave you my name before? So in case you’ve already deleted me, I’m the one who accidentally messaged you last week.