Really sorry?That’s it?
I clench my jaw and pace the room. I’m shocked. Angry. And then I remember. Keysha!
She shows up within thirty minutes, makeup still on from her shift, ready to play my hero. I’ll never know how to pay her back.
“Thank you so much,” I say, sliding into her car.
She side-eyes me. “Grayson’s a dick for pulling this shit. You deserve better.”
I nod slowly. I know she’s right. He should have encouraged me to go with Keysha. Anyone, really. I just hate hearing it. It scrapes over wounds I’ve tried so hard to ignore. It makes it harder to pretend everything’s okay.
I make it in time. I line up with Matt, Ashleigh, and the rest of my classmates. We hold our certificates and grin. We did it.
I did it.
Wow… it’s so surreal that I won’t be returning to Nautical Treasures, endlessly folding tourist clothes and watching for shoplifters. I’ll miss the view from the dock, but not working retail. My feet ache just thinking about it.
After the group picture, everyone stands with their family.
I sigh heavily because I’m jealous. No mom or brothers. And of course, no boyfriend. Keysha doesn’t leave me hanging, though, and is quick to get someone to take our picture.Gosh, I love her. Tonight, I am her charity case, but she makes me feel like I’m worth it. Bless her.
But something keeps needling my heart. It isn’t like Grayson to put my schooling second. Treating it like it is not important is the last thing I ever expected. I wonder if he really couldn’t leave work. I want to know.
*picture of me and Keysha*
Grayson
*Angry emoji*
My stomach flips.
What is that for?
Grayson
Lemme guess ur hitting the bars now with her. All dressed up
It’s like he didn’t even look at the certificate. Didn’t say congratulations. Just assumed the worst.
The tension builds in my chest again. He’s right, though. I want to celebrate. I want one stupid drink with my friend. But instead, I type back.
No bars, going home.
And I do.
It’s midnight. No sign of Grayson. Just me and Wilbur, my new little pig, who I’m still trying to potty train to use a litter box. He’s not exactly a fast learner. I’m starting to wonder if he is a potbelly pig. He sure loves me, though.
After feeding him, I sink into a chair at the kitchen table, head in my hands. The silence is thick, broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock and Wilbur’s snorts as he devours his food like it’s a race.
My phone rests face up beside me, screen dark, like it knows.
I wait.
And wait — until I pass out.
My phone rattles on the tabletop, startling me awake.
Grayson.
