Did you see this??
My stomach sinks even though I can only see the message and not what she’s referring to. My heartbeat quickens as I straighten in bed and unlock my phone, now terrified of what I’ll find.
It takes me a few seconds to realize she’s sent me one of Huxley’s Instagram stories.
When the hell did he start using those in the first place?
But when it finally dawns on me what I’m looking at, I feel sick.
It’s a picture of Huxley, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a twenty-something girl.
“What the fuck,” I mutter out loud.
I deliberate if I should click on the picture and see if there are more pictures or videos like it, my pride not wanting him to see that I’ve been looking at his stories. I eventually cave, needing to study it closer.
The photo was taken last night at some bar. I don’t recognize the girl, but she seems so pleased with herself, cozying up to Huxley. Something about his smirk feels mean and calculated. I can’t tell if my hands are shaking because of the hangover orthis.
It’s when I notice his hair that my vision goes blurry. The black hearts in his hair are barely visible. It’s as if he purposelyshaved them all off. I click through his stories, and there are more of the same. I can only imagine what he did next just to get back at me.
Why would he do this?
This feels uncharacteristically cruel, the feeling of betrayal akin to what I experienced with Oliver. The only difference is that Huxley was never mine to begin with. But I at least thought that I meant more to him than this. It’s as if he’s purposefully trying to hurt me.
And it’s working.
I stare at the picture, the knot in my throat threatening to choke me to death.
Maybe getting cheated on is all I deserve. I’m just a thing that men use, only to be discarded when they’ve had enough of me. I hold no real value. I mean nothing. Just a pretty little trophy and nothing else. The feeling of emptiness these thoughts summon is visceral, like tapping into a deep well I never knew existed inside of me.
I barely notice when the tears start to fall.
It’s pushingmidday when I arrive at the Remington the next day. I slept most of Sunday. When I wasn’t blissfully unconscious, I spent my time eating Chinese takeout in bed, watching nineties romcoms and crying into my General Tso's.
I’m usually never the one to wallow—that’s Jamie’s field of expertise—but I just couldn’t seem to snap myself out of it. It’s as if I’ve opened the floodgates, and every bad feeling I’ve ever suppressed in the past decade came surging out of me.
I woke up with red and puffy eyes and booked a massage at the hotel spa to try to make myself feel better. It somehow made it worse, and I burst out crying on the massage table. I was mortified and apologized profusely to themasseuse. She reassured me in a soft, quiet voice that this was more common than I thought. Still, I made sure to fatten her tip before I left.
Now I’m scanning the theatre corridors dreading—but also hoping—to see Huxley after the shitty weekend I’ve had. He can’t hide forever. Even if he and I are done, we still need to talk, or else the next McKenna family gathering will be especially awkward.
See?
I was right to think this was all a big mistake.
I get all the way to my office without spotting him, but I don’t think I can withstand the painful anticipation, so I decide to just face the music and go looking for him.
Backstage. Dressing rooms. Lobby.
I can’t find him anywhere.
Spotting Whit working in the auditorium, I stomp over and plaster a casual smile on my face, pretending that I’m not engulfed by anxiety.
“Hi Whit,” I say, my voice cool, calm, and collected.
His head lifts from the chair he’s working on.
“Connie.” He flashes a smile. “Had a good weekend?”
I fight the nausea his question incites, knowing very well he’s just making small talk.
