Straight to voicemail. Again. I huff out a frustrated breath and drop my forehead against the steering wheel. For fuck’s sake, let my douchebag ex-boyfriend answer his phone for once in his goddamn charmed life. Keeping my head rested against the baking hot plastic, I put the phone to my ear, trying his number for the fifth time. My eyes squeeze tight, already knowing the outcome, but for whatever reason I persist anyway. It doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to his non-personalized voicemail service.
