Chapter 15 Now
Now
@ainsleygreenwrites: Meet-cute attempt: catastrophic. Pride: gone. Phone: airborne. Internet: thriving.
Comments:
@colleenhooverstan: this is literally my Roman Empire
@dietcokegirlie: the way I GASPED when the phone dropped
@spilledwineclub: pls don’t stop doing these they feed my soul
The next morning, I wake up feeling energized and less humiliated than I did yesterday.
But more importantly, brave enough to check back in on my Ferris wheel fiasco.
I open the app, click on my profile, and see the view count is at half a million.
Bracing myself, I sit up in bed and start scrolling through the comments.
@espressomartinimami: I’m dyinggggg
@brooklynjade: Okay but the guy at the end ??
@lanylover20: Ferris wheel faillllll, I’m crying
@clairebear: WAIT WHO’S THE HOTTIE WHO PICKED UP UR PHONE!!! Don’t keep us waiting like this!
@tasiasdigitaldiary: This is the beginning of ur love story! I FEEL IT
I snort and immediately tap out of the comment section to call Lucas. He answers on the second ring.
“Look who’s a viral sensation,” I say, stretching out on top of my comforter.
He groans, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ve already been screenshotting comments all morning. This has been a great postbreakup confidence boost.”
I laugh. “You’re welcome.”
“So do I get a cut of the revenue, or…”
“Relax. The internet’s in love with you, and you didn’t even have to try.”
“Mmmm,” he says like he’s pretending to be humble, but I know better.
“You know,” I say, scrolling through a comment calling him zaddy vibes, “this could be a great Hinge prompt.”
He goes quiet for a second before groaning. “I’m not ready.”
“See? Doesn’t feel great, does it?”
As we keep talking, I scroll through more comments—people theorizing who he is, begging for updates, saying it feels like a moment ripped out of a movie.
If only they knew he wasn’t some hot mysterious stranger.
He’s Lucas. The guy who helped me carry a box spring up three flights of stairs freshman year.
Who drove across town in a thunderstorm to help me reset my Wi-Fi because I was on deadline.
Who hogs the takeout fried rice like it’s a competitive sport.
Who insists on blasting yeehaw country in the car because it makes him laugh, even though my ears bleed every time.
He’s my best friend. This isn’t a love story.
Not the kind with stolen glances and slow-burn kisses and a will they won’t they tension that ends in fireworks.
This is comfort and familiarity in a way that feels leagues different from what I had with Cole.
Someone who knows my go-to wine order and which part of the couch I like best. And sure, their comments might scream friends-to-lovers, but I’d never write that trope.
It’s too risky, too real, and too easy to get wrong. Besides, I know how those stories end.
We fall into silence, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward between us. I scroll, still half-smiling, until a new notification lights up at the top of my screen.
Comrades ??
Drew: Friendsgiving pics incoming
Drew: 13 attachments
My stomach tightens, and behind Lucas’s breathing on the other end of the line, I hear him clear his throat.
“You just get that too?” he asks.
I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Yeah.”
Neither of us says anything for a moment, and then I do the thing I’ve been dreading—I tap the chat. The messages load instantly. I’m afraid to open the photos. No one’s texted in this group since before the breakup. It has to be an accident. Or a cruel coincidence.
I click the first thumbnail. It’s a group selfie of everyone squeezed together in a living room with plastic cups raised and smiles on their faces.
The second one is more candid: Savannah and Demi are laughing, Grace is holding a tray of desserts, and Cole is in the middle of everyone looking like he belongs.
And then I see her.
A girl tucked in between him and Tucker. Red nails. Chunky sweater. Her hand resting casually on Cole’s thigh. His arm around her shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My breath catches in my throat, and my stomach starts to hurt, yet I can’t look away.
My eyes are glued to the screen as my mind races, trying to make sense of the picture.
The sick feeling in my stomach intensifies, and I feel a wave of nausea hit me as I realize what this probably means.
Is this the girl? The one Cole told me about?
“Did you see…” Lucas starts, but I can’t speak.
I swipe to the next one. They’re even closer now. She’s laughing at something. He’s looking at her like he used to look at me. It hits harder than I expected.
I let the phone fall from my hand, landing somewhere on the floor near my bed.
I don’t pick it up. Lucas says my name, his voice echoing from the speaker, but I don’t answer.
I’m staring straight ahead, heart racing, vision tunneling.
I can still see the image of Cole and that girl burned into my mind, as if it’s mocking me.
That used to be my life.
My arms feel heavy and useless. I don’t even try to pick up my phone.
Instead, I let my body fall backward into the mattress—the one I spent part of my publishing advance on.
Cole used to complain about my old one constantly.
Said it was too soft and made his back hurt.
I still remember the look on his face when this one got delivered.
It was like Christmas morning, when you’ve already opened all your presents and then your mom says: “Wait, I think Santa left one more in the garage.”
And now I’m lying here on this overpriced king-size mattress, wishing I could set the whole thing on fire.
Why is it that months after the breakup, he’s still the one I think about more than anyone else? He moved on so fast that I doubt I even cross his mind. He’s probably waking up in her bed right now, and I wonder if he likes her mattress.
What a stupid thought to have.
I wonder what she’s like. Does she make him laugh the way I used to?
Does she smile and nod when he goes on a tangent about work, pretending to care just enough?
Does he rest his head in her lap at the end of the day while she runs her fingers through his hair like I did?
Has he replaced all the things that were once ours with her now?
It feels like I’m living in a nightmare version of “deja vu” by Olivia Rodrigo, and no matter how much I try to smash the radio or the record player, it keeps playing around me.
Louder and louder. Over and over. Except it’s not a nightmare. This is my life now.
When Cole broke up with me, he said a lot of things, most of which I don’t remember, because I swear I blacked out.
I could see his mouth moving, but nothing was registering until he said the four words no one ever wants to hear: I met someone else.
Now, seeing her face makes everything real in a way I haven’t been ready to admit.
And that sad realization sends me back into reality.
I roll onto my side, the sheets tangled around my legs, and stare down at the floor. My phone is face up, still on the call with Lucas.
Shit.
I reach down and pick it up slowly, pressing it back to my ear. “You’re still there?”
There’s a pause, then he says, “Yeah. You okay?”
“Not really,” I admit.
Lucas is quiet on the other end, but he doesn’t hang up.
“I just—” My throat tightens. “It’s not like I didn’t know about her, but seeing a picture of her, let alone at Friendsgiving, makes it all feel real. And cruel, like she’s stepping into a life I got kicked out of.”
He exhales. “I’m sorry, Ains.”
“Do you still follow him?” I ask.
Lucas hesitates. “Why?”
“Can you check something for me?”
“Ainsley…”
“It’s for closure,” I say, even though I’m not sure that’s true. “Please?”
He groans softly, like he knows he shouldn’t give in, but he will anyway. “What am I looking for?”
“Just go to who he’s following. Look for her.”
“How will I know who she is?”
“You’ll know,” I reply. “Trust me.”
I hear a few taps on the other end. Then silence.
“Found her. Name’s Camrynn. C-A-M-R-Y-N-N. Never seen that spelling before,” he says, trying to make light of the situation.
Lucas doesn’t know it, but he gets a half smile out of me. “What does she do?”
“Her bio says she’s a spin instructor and a brand ambassador for Lululemon.”
I groan into my pillow. “Of course it does.”
“You sure you wanted to know that?” he asks.
“No,” I admit. “But I had to.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute and then gently asks, “You want me to unfollow him?”
“Yeah. That’d be nice.”
“Done.”
I stare at the ceiling for a long moment. “Thank you.”
“Are you still planning on going home for Thanksgiving?” Lucas asks, changing the subject.
Shit. I forgot all about Thanksgiving. The last thing I want is to sit around a table with my family fielding questions about my love life, my deadline, and now, apparently, my unexpected social media fame.
“Can I come to your house?” I ask without thinking.
“For Thanksgiving?” He sounds surprised.
“Yeah. I mean only if it’s not weird. Or if your mom already bought a specific number of napkin rings or something.”
Lucas laughs. “It’s just my abuelos and mom. I think we can handle one extra plate.”
I smile. “Good. Because I really don’t feel like being the only single one at my family’s table this year. I’ll deal with it at Christmas, but right now I’d just like to pretend the breakup isn’t my entire personality.”
“Then you’re coming here,” he says, like it’s already settled. “You can be in charge of dessert. My mom will act like she doesn’t want help, but she’ll secretly be thrilled.”
“I’ll bring one of those overpriced Whole Foods pies so she can critique the crust and say she could’ve made it better.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Thanks, Lucas,” I say. “Really.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “But if you insist, I’ll take it in the form of a video update about our fake internet romance.”