Fangirl

Chapter 14

AMY

I’m woken by the double assault of my phone vibrating and the doorbell shrieking at the same time.

Absolutely not.

I spent most of the night crying until my throat was raw and my head throbbed, cursing Jake Hollander, his ancestors, and any future descendants unlucky enough to share his DNA.

I even dabbled in some half-drunk online voodoo, whispering hexes into the dark and praying his balls shriveled up and fell off.

But mostly? I grieved.

For Eli. For the man who didn’t exist. For the connection I thought was real.

I curl tighter beneath my blanket, but my brain is already spinning, replaying last night like a highlight reel from hell.

"Afraid?" I’d whispered, voice shaking. "Afraid of what?"

"Of losing you."

His voice cracked, and his eyes were wrecked. And then, “I love you,” he choked out, over and over, like he was falling apart with every word.

And I left anyway.

I press a fist to my mouth, trying to trap the sob clawing its way up my throat. God, why did it sound so real? Why does it still haunt me?

The phone vibrates again, skittering across the nightstand like it’s trying to escape.

I roll over and grab it, wincing. Every muscle screams in protest.

Not the normal ache. Not even the familiar post-flare hangover. This is something deeper, like grief took a sledgehammer to my insides.

I shouldn’t look. I blocked him everywhere, but some pathetic part of me hopes…

No! Stop!

I shove on my glasses and squint at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Eli is Jake Hollander?!” Maya’s voice nearly ruptures my eardrum.

“What?” I croak, panic flooding in. “Maya, what are you talking about?”

Did I… Did I post something? Oh god, did I tweet? I was a little drunk. Did I accidentally go full meltdown online?

“It’s everywhere, Amy! Social media’s blowing up.”

I groan. “Oh no.”

I sit up too fast, and a bolt of pain shoots through my side. Joints lock, and my muscles are on fire. Yep. Full-on stress flare. Excellent.

“You know, it’s not that bad,” Maya says quickly.

Which obviously means it’s ten times worse than I think.

“I’ll call you back later.”

I shuffle to the kitchen, feed a yowling Pea, and hit the coffee machine with the enthusiasm of a corpse. I stare blankly at a banana for a good thirty seconds, deciding whether chewing is too much effort.

Halfway through peeling it, my phone buzzes again.

Mum.

Oh god.

I shouldn’t answer. I do anyway.

“Hi.”

“Amy,” she says immediately, her voice laced with worry. “You’re alright, aren’t you? This… thing online—it’s just a hoax, right?”

My chest tightens.

“What thing?”

“The Daily Mail is saying that Hollywood superstar Jason Hollander was dumped by a mystery woman, and it shows you!”

Jake. But I don’t correct her.

“Daily Mail, Mum? Really? That’s your trusted source?”

“It’s fake, isn’t it?” she presses. “Your brother says it must be. That it’s impossible. Because he’s a Hollywood star and, well… you’re you.”

The words land like a slap, sharper than I expect.

And the worst part? She doesn’t even mean it to be cruel, just honest.

If even my mother doubts someone like me belongs in his world… what real chance do Jake and I have?

I swallow hard, the knot in my throat burning.

“You don’t have to worry, Mum,” I say tightly. “It must be a mistake. I don’t know Jake Hollander.”

And the worst part? It doesn’t feel like a lie.

I don’t know Jake Hollander. I knew Eli.

Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was all a game from the moment he said hello. Some twisted role he played for fun. I didn’t think he was cruel, but… I’ve been wrong before. A lot.

Mum laughs lightly, oblivious. “Yes, well, it didn’t make sense. But you know, for the wedding—”

“I have to go, Mum. Maya’s at the door.”

I hang up before she can say anything else and make my way over, wanting to see what the insistent bell was all about. What I see is a gift basket.

A ridiculous, oversized basket brimming with gourmet snacks and pastel tissue paper, like guilt dressed in designer ribbon.

There’s a note tucked between a box of macarons and an organic candle: “I’m sorry. – J”

I snort. Loudly.

Classic damage control. Glossy, thoughtful, and impersonal.

I close the door without touching it again.

The neighbors can have the basket.

Me? I don’t want anything from him.

I slam the door harder than I should, grab my cup, and sit at the kitchen table, laptop in front of me.

And then I do the worst thing I can possibly do.

I open a search engine, type his name, and hit enter.

The first headline? Daily Mail, of course.

EXCLUSIVE: Jake Hollander Dumped at His Own Premiere — Mysterious Woman Breaks Hollywood Heart

The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched.

I scroll down, and it hits me immediately—the photo.

Me.

Clear as day, standing in that alley looking pale, furious, and broken.

And next to me… him. Jake. Eli. Whatever the hell his name is, reaching for me.

My stomach twists.

Then come the comments.

"Must be a PR stunt. No way Hollander pulls a girl built like that unless it’s for sympathy points."

"She’s a nobody. Watch, she’ll have a book deal or a reality show by next week."

"Poor guy. You can see he’s heartbroken. Hope this wasn’t some fat girl’s attempt at fifteen minutes of fame."

"Honestly? He dodged a bullet. What was he thinking?"

I flinch like I’ve been slapped. The screen swims, the words blurring through my tears.

I know better. I know I should stop.

But I scroll anyway. Masochistic. Desperate. Hoping maybe, somehow, someone saw me. Really saw me.

"That’s more like charity work than heartbreak if you ask me."

"Did he lose a bet? That dress is working overtime, poor thing."

"Imagine being the fat girl who ruins Jake Hollander’s premiere. I’d never show my face again."

My hand flies to my mouth.

I taste salt, tears, and shame. And above all, rage.

Because it doesn’t matter that they don’t know me.

It doesn’t matter that Jake looked at me like I was his whole world just hours ago.

The internet has already decided.

I’m a joke. A before photo. A punchline in a comment thread.

And him? He’s still the golden boy—untouched and untouchable.

He gets the sympathy. The fans. The free pass.

I get hashtags and humiliation.

And that breaks something deep inside me.

He broke my heart, and now the world is taking turns finishing the job.

For them, I’m not a woman. Not a person who bled her heart onto the page and dared to trust someone who smiled like he saw her.

I’m just a headline. A meme. The fat girl who dared.

And he’ll walk away from this shining because that’s what men like him do.

They ruin women like me and still get to be adored.

I feel humiliated. But worse, I feel erased, like my whole self has been collapsed into a single snapshot that no one even wants to understand.

I’m not sure how long I doomscroll through the hate, but I’m completely desensitized after a while.

I close the laptop.

It takes effort. My hands are shaking, and my chest is tight. Every part of me feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

I press my forehead to the table and try to breathe. Try to be.

A knock sounds at the door.

I groan. “Go away.”

Another knock, louder this time.

Then—Maya’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. “If you don’t open this door in the next ten seconds, I’m breaking in with a spoon.”

I let out a strangled noise that’s half laugh, half sob.

One more knock.

“I have ice cream! The expensive kind. And the sad girl playlist queued up on Spotify. I’m not above dramatic entrance music.”

I drag myself to the door and open it.

She takes one look at me, my tear-streaked face, the rat’s nest that is my hair, the oversized hoodie, and wordlessly pushes past me, holding a bag like she’s raiding a bunker.

“Jesus,” she mutters, kicking the door shut with her foot. “What happened since this morning?”

“I googled.”

She winces. “Rookie mistake.”

“There’s a picture,” I whisper, “of me… at the premiere. And the comments…”

She sets the bag down on the table, then crosses the room and pulls me into a hug.

I break, silently and violently, right there in her arms.

“I should’ve known,” I mumble. “I should’ve known what they’d say.”

“People are assholes,” she says fiercely, wrapping her arms tighter around me. “They’re terrified of women who don’t fit in their narrow little boxes.”

I sniff. “They said he was doing charity work, Maya.”

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. “I hope they all get explosive diarrhea in their cars. During rush hour. With no toilet paper in sight.”

A weak laugh slips out. It’s not much, but it’s something.

She cups my cheeks, her thumbs gentle. “Screw them. Screw the internet. And screw Jake fucking Hollander.”

Then she turns, grabs the giant tub of ice cream from the bag, plucks out a spoon, and nudges me toward the sofa. “Sit. Eat. Stuff your face. I’ll be back with cocktails and a playlist titled ‘Men Are Trash But Ice Cream Is Forever.’”

She brings the cocktails, and I don’t ask what’s in them. I don’t really care. Could be gasoline with a sugar rim at this point.

She kicks off her shoes and settles onto the sofa beside me, pulling the corner of the blanket over her lap like she owns the place, which, emotionally speaking, she kind of does.

“Thank you for being here,” I murmur.

“Always,” she says, like it’s not even a question.

We eat in silence for a little while—ice cream straight from the tub, cocktails of suspicious strength, and a shared unspoken agreement that trousers are optional.

Eventually, she clears her throat, nudging me gently with her foot. “So… do you want to talk about it? Or shall we just spiral silently while watching Murder She Baked reruns?”

I groan and drop my head onto her shoulder. “I don’t even know what to say. I mean, he lied. But also, he didn’t. But also… he did.”

She sips her drink. “Men do that. They lie, and then they act surprised when you feel betrayed. It’s like they think emotional deception is fine as long as their pants are still on.”

I snort. “It’s the loophole. The ‘technically I didn’t cheat’ of identity crises.”

She grins. “Exactly. Emotional catfishing with a six-pack and a good jawline.”

That gets a real laugh out of me, even though my heart still feels like a bruised fruit.

We’re quiet again for a beat. Then, softly, Maya says, “You love him, don’t you?”

The words are like a needle popping a balloon I’ve been trying to keep inflated with sarcasm and full-fat ice cream.

I don’t answer right away. Just stare into the little swirl of melted ice cream at the bottom of my spoon, like maybe it holds the answer. Spoiler: It doesn’t.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I do. At least… the version of him he showed me. But”—I shrug—“was any of it real?”

Maya snorts. “Babe, yes. Come on. No man is that emotionally invested in something platonic. Especially not a man like him.”

I throw her a flat look. “Wow, thanks.”

She lifts her hands like she’s innocent. “I’m serious! It’s been months of talking and pining and bantering, and you’re telling me he was just being friendly? Please. That man could snap his fingers and have a supermodel at his door in under ten minutes.”

“Lovely. That really helps.”

“It does!” she insists, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “Because he chose you. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. And okay, he’s an idiot, and he hurt you, but love like that doesn’t just vanish because of a headline or a couple of trolls in the comments section.”

I blink hard, trying to hold back the sting in my eyes.

“I don’t know if I can trust him,” I admit quietly.

Maya tilts her head. “Fair. But do you want to?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Maya hums, thoughtful, but I can tell she’s already deep in best-friend battle mode.

“That’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to know yet. Love doesn’t come with a use-by date or a multiple-choice quiz.”

I scoff. “Could’ve fooled me. Feels like everyone else has it all figured out. Marriage, kids, ten-year plans with color-coded spreadsheets.”

“Please.” She waves her spoon like a sword. “Most of them are one minor inconvenience away from a full-blown existential crisis and a badly-timed fringe.”

That makes me laugh, a tiny, cracked sound, but it’s something.

Maya softens. “You’re allowed to feel wrecked. You’re allowed to be angry, to doubt him, to doubt yourself. But don’t confuse that pain with failure. You didn’t fail. You opened up. You loved. And that? That’s brave as hell.”

I wipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my oversized hoodie. “You always say the exact right thing. It’s annoying.”

She smirks. “It’s my gift. Like clairvoyance, but emotionally codependent.”

We sit there for another long moment, warm under the blanket, ice cream slowly melting between us.

Then she says quietly, “You don’t have to do anything right now. You can just be here. With me. In this mess. Until you figure it out.”

I lean my head against her shoulder. “What if I never do?”

“You will,” she says, with the kind of certainty only best friends get to have. “And when you do? Whether you go back to him or burn everything to the ground, I’ll be right here. With more ice cream. And probably tequila.”

I exhale, a mix of laughter and tears. “You’re kind of the best.”

“I am the best. But don’t tell Pea. It’ll go straight to his head.”

I smile. I ache. I’m still broken.

But I’m not alone.