Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
JULIETTE
Twenty minutes later, the Uber driver eyed me in the rearview mirror.
He’d been doing that since the moment I sat down.
At first, I thought it was because he recognized me, or at least thought I looked familiar.
But the further we got from the hotel, the more he watched me. “Uh, ma’am? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I wheezed, sniffing and wiping my nose. Why couldn’t I stop crying? Why couldn’t I catch my breath? And why did my chest hurt?
Wait. Was I having a panic attack? Why would I be having a panic attack? Worse things had happened than this.
Stop crying. It’s not like you actually love Griffin. You hardly know him.
But if that were true, why couldn’t I send this stupid message? I’d typed it out over ten minutes ago.
Juliette
Okay, deep breaths. I mean, it’s a fun thing to mark off the bucket list—Get married in Vegas—check! Pretty unhinged, amirite? No need to freak out. I’ll call my lawyer, get it annulled, and you’ll be back to your bachelor era before the ink’s even dry.
Thanks for the memories.
—Jules
It was flippant and mean. I knew that. I’d stolen his virginity. At that thought, my sobs started back up. But I didn’t change the message—because finding out I was a selfish jerk might make it easier for him to get over.
“Just send it,” I hissed to myself. I lifted my finger to try again, and my heart bucked like a train about to come off the tracks.
Now I was seeing floaters. I blinked. Still there.
Oh, that couldn’t be good. I pressed my palm flat against my sternum and breathed out a shaky hoo-hoo, hee-hee, like a woman in labor.
“That’s it,” the driver said, stomping the brakes. A horn blared behind us as we narrowly avoided being rear-ended. “I’m not insured for heart attacks.”
“It’s—” I gasped. “—fine. Just… pull over. Starbucks.” I pointed. “I need—” Gulp. “—caffeine.”
“Caffeine is exactly what you don’t need right now,” he muttered. But he did as I asked.
Once my phone disappeared into my pocket, my heart began to right itself. I climbed out of the car and motioned for him to roll down his window. “Stay,” I ordered. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” As soon as I could get control of my appendages and involuntary organs.
“Clock’s ticking,” he said. “I’ve got someone waiting.”
“I’ll pay you double.” I flashed him my award-winning smile. Seriously, it had won awards.
It worked. He went slack for a second, like I was Will Smith and he’d just been neuralyzed. Then he blinked again, back to normal. “I’m charging you, even if I’m parked,” he warned.
“I’m good for it.”
But hesitation flickered across his face.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked, hoping to bribe him to stay put. “Dubai Chocolate-Inspired Matcha Latte? Or Iced Brown Sugar Oat milk Shaken Espresso?” I shot him with a finger pistol. “How about a slice of warm quiche on the side? Whatever your heart desires.”
“No quiche.” He shuddered. “Disgusting.” He slunk down a bit. “Pink drink with pearls, please,” he mumbled so quietly I almost didn’t catch it. “Don’t tell my friends.”
“A pink drink guy.” I offered him a fist bump. “You got it.”
I walked inside, my hands still shaking. I managed to order the drinks without puking or passing out. Then I sat at a table, head in my hands, trying to figure out what was wrong with me and why my body was having such an overblown reaction to letting Griffin go.
Nothing’s wrong with you. This is just what love feels like. I whimpered because it was true. I closed my eyes, seeing the way Griffin looked at me—with a breath-stealing intensity. His hand placed gently against the small of my back. His sweet whispered words all through the night.
Griffin loved me as much as I loved him. It was the love I’d always dreamed of.
And now I had to let him go.
I didn’t have a choice.
You have choices, I heard my mom’s voice in my head.
I looked up at the ceiling and glared, hoping she could feel it all the way in… wherever she was. Because I didn’t have a choice. If anyone didn’t have choices and never had, it was me. And it was her fault.
I angrily fumbled in my pocket for my phone. Before I could lose my nerve, I hit send on the text.
And immediately burst into tears.
“No, no, no.” I pounded the phone against my forehead.
A few seconds later, the message failed to send.
“Oh, thank you, thank you.” I deleted the text like my phone had burst into flames, and erasing the words would put out the fire.
Then I slapped a hand over my heart and dropped my head back onto the booth seat.
“Fine,” I whispered. “Mom, God, Fate, Whoever’s In Charge, if I’m supposed to choose Griffin—no idea how I can possibly do that, by the way—but if I’m supposed to, please give me a sign. ”
I needed a sign, or a miracle—a metaphorical parting of the Red Sea. And I needed it now. Because if I went back to work, back to DayGlow, that was it. I wouldn’t be able to choose Griffin after that, even if I wanted to—and heaven help me, I did. Desperately.
“Here you go,” a little voice said.
I looked over to see an adorable boy of about nine or ten, with strawberry-blond hair and brown eyes, standing beside my table with my cold brew in his hands—no cream, no sweetener, my name written on the side in black Sharpie.
Even this tasteless, disappointing waste of an Abraham Lincoln was a result of my contract.
The undersigned, Juliette Serrant, shall consume no more than 1,200 calories per day. No sugar. No gluten. No joy.
The boy cleared his throat. Waiting for a tip, apparently.
“Oh, sorry.” I reached into my bag and handed him two dollars.
“No, thanks.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “My mom said you looked like you were having a bad day and asked me to bring it to you.”
I looked past him to see a middle-aged woman watching us by the counter. I waved. She winked and smiled. She must’ve recognized me.
“That was really sweet,” I said, taking the drink. “Thank you.”
“They said your other drink will be ready in a minute.” He turned to smile at his mom, and the light caught his hair. A gasp escaped before I could stop it. His hair wasn’t strawberry-blond as I’d originally thought. It was red. Light red, sure, but red nonetheless.
Could this be my sign?
How is this a sign? Plenty of people have red hair.
No, less than two percent of the population has red hair. You know that.
Still, meeting another redhead isn’t exactly sign-worthy. Get a grip.
The boy grinned. “My friends aren’t gonna believe it when I tell them I met you, Juliette Serrant.
” I doubted any of his friends knew who I was.
I doubted he had either until his mom told him thirty seconds ago.
But it was sweet. “You’re really pretty.
” His face lit up. “And you seem like a good person. Not fake-good either, real good. Most famous people aren’t good in real life, according to my mom.
I can’t wait to tell her you’re not like most famous people. ”
I swallowed and pulled my lips into something resembling a smile. “Well, thank you. You seem good too. The real kind.”
“I am,” he said proudly.
I smiled at his mom, sending her a silent, Good job, mama. “Would you mind if we took a selfie together?” I called to her. “I won’t post it.” I just wanted to remember this adorable boy who’d made things a little better.
She smiled and nodded.
“Is that okay?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Yes.”
We leaned in and smiled for the camera.
The barista handed his mom her drink, and I knew our visit was over.
“Oh, so sorry. I didn’t ask your name.” I held out my hand for a shake.
He squeezed my palm. “It’s Weston. Nice to meet you.”
“W-W-Weston?” I choked.
“No, just Weston with one W,” he said, oblivious that he’d just finished me off. His mom called for him. “It was nice to meet you, Juliette Serrant. Gotta go. Bye.” He jogged away.
“Bye, Weston,” I whimpered, flopping back in the seat, my body buzzing with shock. A red-headed boy named Weston.
Is that sign enough for you? Imaginary Mom asked with a sniff.
“Yes,” I whispered. “It’s enough.” Even as jaded as I was, I couldn’t deny it.
If I were going to do this, though, I had to tell Griffin the truth about myself. All of it. Every ugly detail. As soon as I got back to the hotel.
This day wouldn’t let up. Not for a second. My phone danced across the table, swiveling this way and that, as a call came through.
Cecil.
I stared at his name. He was done waiting. Any moment now, a car might pull up to fetch me. He’d done it before. If I were choosing Griffin, I had to do it now.
I sent Cecil’s call to voicemail and got to work.
I sent all my favorite pictures to my Gmail account—the one I’d made sure DayGlow didn’t know about.
Including the photo of Weston and me. Then I moved as much money as I could.
The rest just sat there—mine, technically, but locked up in managed accounts and investments that couldn’t be liquidated without approval. DayGlow had made sure of that.
Then I typed out a text.
Juliette
I won’t be coming in today. Or ever again. This is my official resignation. Don’t try to find me, Cecil. You’ve taken enough. You don’t get the rest. Have the life you deserve. —J
But I didn’t send it. Not yet.
“Super Duper Uber Guy!” the male barista called from behind the counter.
I grabbed my coffee and stood, no idea how I was going to do this. Like I’d done everything else in my life, I guessed.
One terrifying step at a time.
A few years back, while waiting to go on the Breaking Curfew show, I’d enjoyed some downtime in the green room with Marie Kondo, of all people. Up until that night, I’d never heard of the woman, but by the time she left for her interview, I was convinced of her method.
So I held my phone in my hand and thanked it.
If a phone had a soul, I’m sure when it came off the assembly line, mine had no idea it would be used to spy on my every move, leaking all my hopes, dreams, and greatest fears to a bunch of heartless men wearing expensive suits, who never looked me in the eye.
It had no idea that the magnetic radio waves it emitted would be shackles on my wrist.
But I wouldn’t thank DayGlow. Not for the phone, the penthouse apartment, my celebrity status, or all the zeros in my bank account.
They’d destroyed a young girl’s dream. Twisted something beautiful and bright into something dark and ugly.
My time there would be a stain I could never scrub out, no matter how much therapy I underwent or how many good deeds I did.
So rather than thanking them, I whispered a promise instead: Goodbye, Cecil and DayGlow. I’ll see you all in hell.
Then I hit send, dropped my phone in the trash, and walked out the door.