Chapter 16
THE ENTIRE CAR RIDE home with Michelle, I don’t say a word. I’m completely lost in my own head.
Jillian and Camilla kissed. There’s no doubt that they’re back together.
The realization flings me back through time to the heartbreak Jill went through. To the crying, the angry stomping, the way talking to her felt like trying to run your hand along jagged glass. She was this explosive version of herself for months all because of Camilla.
Then I think about Julie, who is president of the We Hate Camilla fan club and is going to absolutely lose her mind when she finds out about this. Even if Jill could forgive Camilla so easily, she’s going to have a hard time convincing the rest of my family to do the same.
Maybe there’s more to the story. I know Jillian—she will gladly take a grudge to her grave. For her to forgive Camilla means there must be something she isn’t telling us. Some other crucial information that led to their breakup that she’s kept close to her heart.
When Michelle pulls up in front of my house, I’m feeling sick to my stomach. I thank her for the ride and head inside, pausing at the front door. I really can’t spend tonight sitting across from Jill at the dining table, pretending I didn’t just watch her make out with Camilla.
I need to get as far away from this house as possible, which is how I end up at Suzy’s for dinner.
We sit outside with her parents on their deck, eating barbecued beef short ribs, loaded baked potatoes, and a gigantic salad. Suzy’s dad is Korean, and her mom is an American who loves to cook, which results in dinners that are heavy on classics while Ms. Cho tries to tie in some of the food her husband ate growing up, too. Tonight, the beef falls right off the bone and has this tangy flavor that’s both sweet and spicy.
After dinner, we retreat to Suzy’s bedroom, which looks more like a movie theater. She has a projector on the ceiling, a drop-down screen on the wall, and a bunch of beanbag chairs over a fuzzy polka-dot carpet. We have a lifelong history of spending Friday nights here, loaded up on popcorn and watching whatever movie Suzy deems a must-watch. At the end of the night, I usually scroll through my phone while she writes up her Letterboxd review.
While Suzy sets up the projector, I reluctantly answer a few messages on pleasebreakmyheart . I still can’t bring myself to abandon the blog entirely. Leaving all these people hanging just feels wrong. Plus, it’s gotten to the point now where I can barely keep up with the demand. I’d need to employ an entire team of people to make it through the hundreds of unread messages.
“Romance or drama?” Suzy asks.
“Drama,” I say instantly. While reading through these heartbreak horrors, the last thing I want to watch is two people in their picture-perfect relationship.
I fire off responses for the three most recent messages, making sure to leave the advice more open-ended and less do-this-or-else. It seems to be the only way I can continue running this blog with a clear conscience, knowing that at the end of the day, the person asking for advice—not me—is in charge of their own fate.
The fourth message I read stumps me. It’s from @katiecat99:
What do you do when you’re the problem, not them? I have a life’s worth of trust issues that are stopping me from letting my boyfriend in. I don’t want to let him go, but it feels nearly impossible to open up to him. What do I do?
My heart instantly hurts for Katie. In a way, it seems like this question is less about their relationship and more about her . It reminds me of something Julie said once: right person, wrong time. Who she said it about, I can’t remember. But the sentiment rings true.
I write back:
First, you are the furthest thing from a problem. Sounds to me like there’s trauma you are sorting through, and you’re allowed to take time and space to navigate that. I think here you need to prioritize communication. Talk with your boyfriend and let him know your struggles. This is a time for him to be patient and understanding. If he can’t offer you that, perhaps you need to focus on yourself and healing from your past before letting someone else in. I wish you the best!
I post the message, smiling to myself.
“What are you grinning about?” Suzy asks, collapsing back in her beanbag chair.
“I think I just gave some pretty great advice.”
“Yeah? How’s the blog going?”
“Good,” I say. “I’ve taken a bit of a new approach, and I think it’s working out well.”
“Why is that?” she asks. On the screen, the opening credits for The Social Network begin to play.
“The situation with Wilson made me realize that there are real people on the receiving end of my advice. I guess I’m trying to be more careful with what I put out there.”
Suzy smiles. “That’s a great idea.” Then the screen takes up all her attention. “There’s this one scene with Andrew Garfield that’s amazing , Jack. You’ll see.”
I pay attention for the first half of the movie. Then my mind decides to fixate on the Camilla and Jillian situation. Do I confront Jill? Do I tell Julie? I can’t seem to figure out what lines I do and do not cross, or if it’s even my place to cross them at all.
Then there’s Jillian’s interview, which I completely forgot about until right now. That’s a whole other trap I need to somehow get myself out of. It feels like I’m jumping through loop after loop, and at some point I’m bound to trip up, fall, and land flat on my face.
When my phone rings, the sound startles me so bad I scream. Suzy pauses the movie. I look at the screen and find an incoming call from—
“Wilson?” I say, shocked. It’s half past nine. What could he need at this time?
Suzy practically climbs into my beanbag chair with me. “Oh my gosh. Put it on speaker.”
But I already have the phone pressed firmly to my ear, Wilson’s breathing pulling through from the other end. “Hello?” I say.
“Jackie. Hi.”
The sound of his voice lightens the tension that’s been building in my chest.
I can hear the surprise in his two words, too. But is it surprise that he called, or surprise that I picked up? “Are you free?” he continues.
“I’m at my friend’s house,” I say slowly. Suzy is mouthing for me to put the phone on speaker. Reluctantly, I do.
Wilson sighs, the frustration clear in the ragged breath. “Do you think you could—” He stops himself. I hear footsteps, like he’s pacing back and forth. “You know what? Never mind. I shouldn’t have—”
“Wilson, spit it out.”
He does. When he speaks, it sounds as if he’s forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “I need some help. I’m struggling with this gift basket.”
“You just place the items inside, Willy,” I say. Wilson asking me for help fills me with so much righteous air I may as well be a balloon.
“I—” Another sigh. “I can’t make it look nice.”
I have this clear vision of him pinching the bridge of his nose, absolutely despising himself for having to turn to me.
“Nothing fits right,” he continues. “And I can’t figure out how to make everything stay up .” As soon as he says that, there’s a crashing noise in the background as if, on cue, an item fell out of the basket. Wilson swears beneath his breath. “See?”
I hold back a laugh. Beside me, Suzy is snickering into a pillow. “Have you tried watching a tutorial?”
“Of course I have, Jackie,” he deadpans. “That’s the first thing I did. Clearly, they are quite difficult to follow.”
I have this sudden image in my head of Wilson intensely studying a computer with flushed cheeks, inserting each item into the basket this way and that, losing his patience when nothing seems to be working just right.
“Which basket did you choose?” I ask, remembering the text he sent earlier.
“The one you suggested.”
I grin. “Good.”
“So—is that a yes?”
“I don’t believe you asked me a question,” I say. If Wilson was a remote, consider all of his buttons pressed.
The line goes silent for so long I think he may have disconnected. Then his voice returns, laced with the classic annoyance. “Will you come by and help me assemble this godforsaken basket?”
I turn to Suzy for approval. She rolls her eyes like she’s annoyed, but nods anyway.
“Sure, I can come. Where are you?”
“Monte’s.”
I groan. “I don’t step foot in there unless I’m getting paid.”
“You can leave an hour early tomorrow,” he says with no hesitation. If it wasn’t clear before, it is now—Wilson has officially hit rock bottom. Luckily, I’m ready to take advantage of it.
“Deal,” I say. “Be there in fifteen.” I hang up the phone for no reason other than to annoy him just a tiny bit more. Suzy is already up, pulling a gray hoodie over her T-shirt. “This should be quick,” I say to her. “If you give me a ride, we can be back in under an hour and finish the movie.”
Suzy thinks on it. “Fine. But I get to bring my camera and record whatever I want.”
“Not whatever you want—”
“Take it or leave it,” she cuts in stubbornly.
It’s late. It’s dark. The best footage she’ll get is me walking to and from the door to Monte’s, which isn’t very damaging. “I’ll take it.”
In five minutes, we’re in her dad’s car, driving through an eerily quiet neighborhood.
“Don’t you think this is a bit weird?” Suzy asks after a few moments of silence.
“I don’t know,” I say, looking at the McDonald’s sign as we drive past. The yellow neon M is tipping over, making it look more like a W . “The sign’s been broken for so long. I doubt anyone will ever fix it.”
Suzy snorts. “Not the sign, dummy. I mean Wilson calling you and asking you to help him.”
“It’s a little weird, sure. But this is what we agreed on.” Even as I say it, I’m not entirely certain I believe it myself.
“You really think you can win back his ex?”
The million-dollar question. “We better,” I say, “because that’s the only way I’m getting my old job back and we’re affording a road trip.”
Suzy pulls into the parking lot. The second she shifts into park, her camera is in her hands and trained on my face. “I shouldn’t be more than fifteen, twenty minutes,” I promise, jumping out of the car and running to the front door. I can feel the camera following my every move, searching for a story that may or may not already be there.
All I know is that before Suzy agreed to hit Pause on movie night, a big glaring yes had already formed in my head. That no matter what her answer was, I would have ended up here at Monte’s somehow. And I tell myself I’m doing this to honor our deal: Wilson wins Kenzie back and I get to ditch the frog costume for my old waitress job. But as I walk up the sidewalk to the front door, I realize that there has been a pivotal shift I hadn’t thought about. Or maybe I did, but I chose to ignore it.
Because when I raise my hand to knock on the glass, I’m filled with a very specific feeling. Only this time, it isn’t annoyance.
This time, it feels suspiciously like excitement.