I watch the video a second, then a third time, smirking at her antics despite myself. She’s funny and effortlessly charismatic, made to be an actress. I’m no better than any of her other lame-ass followers … exceptIknow what she sounds like when she moans. And how her tits fit perfectly into my palms.
I close the app with an irritated sigh, and my head falls backward onto the headrest. I watch the snow fall against the frosty glass for a little while longer before finally opening the car door.
I pretend my heart isn’t beating against my chest as I make my way inside for my first real class since I was seventeen.
9
CONNIE
Sitting on the edge of my hotel bed, I stare at my phone. I’m gripping it so hard that the corners are starting to dig into my skin. I barely ever go into my Instagram requests; it’s typically a minefield of men behaving badly. To put it lightly.
But it’s Sunday night in Marsford Bay, and I’m crawling out of my skin, stuck with my spiraling thoughts and nothing to do. Jamie invited me for Sunday dinner, but I declined. One more flimsy excuse, and I know she’ll soon be on to me.
I’ll worry about the integrity of my friendship another day.
Right now, I’m staring at a mea culpa message from Oliver. It was sent a few days ago from a fake account. I feelsick, the shame and memory of being cheated on—and so publicly—threatening to pull me under. I’ve been running from the feeling for weeks now. I even flew back to Massachusetts to get away. But none of that matters when I can just open up my phone and find him there, waiting for me like a poisonous snake in the grass.
I’m biting my lip bloody, staring at his words.
I’m so sorry … Please unblock me … It was a mistake … You’re the one I love … I was fucked up … Going to rehab … Please forgive me.
I can’t believe him, blaming his affairs on his drug and alcohol addiction as if I’m just some inconsequential collateral damage. I fuckinghatehim.
Finally having enough, I throw my phone across the room, hoping it shatters into a million little pieces. It does not. I let out a pained shriek and fall backward onto the bed. I’m struggling to keep the tears at bay. Eventually, they do fall, silently traveling down my temples and disappearing into my hair.
I stare at the ceiling, the words from Oliver’s message etched into my vision. I watch them flash one by one against the white paint, taunting me.
I can’t stay in my hotel room for one second longer and jump up abruptly from the bed.
I settle for a late-night walk to clear my head.
My mind is still racingas I walk through the deserted streets of the North End. Although Marsford Bay is a large port city known for its many universities and bustling young demographic, the winters sometimes make it feel like a ghost town.
Especially when it’s this cold outside.
I barely feel the bite of the wind, the hood of my red Burberry coat shielding me from most of it. The city is full of Christmas spirit, snow falling lazily from the sky and blanketing the streets in white. Seeing all the decorations as I walk makes my teeth ache with childhood nostalgia.
Christmas was always an extravagant affair when I was young, as if my parents were making up for lost time compared to their absence during the rest of the year. As a kid, I didn’t care, as long as I was showered with gifts. The memory feels hollow now, but the nostalgia still lingers, especially when I’m feeling this lonely.
I had a good childhood, all things considered, if maybe a little neglected. My parents weren’t monsters, just notparticularly present. At least they were supportive of my lofty goals, even when those aspirations were pipe dreams like moving to LA and becoming an actress.
Maybe I should move back home for good.
The thought knocks the wind out of me, and I stop in my tracks, sneakily looking around as if someone could have read my mind.
No way.
I can’t.
I have a life in California. Not to mention that I’d feel like a giant failure if I moved back home right after my breakup with Oliver. As if I were a mistreated puppy running away with its tail between its legs.
Nope—not a chance.
I’m just having an existential crisis.
It’ll pass.
Thankfully, I know exactly how to remedy it.
