Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Mina
Two words.
I’m sorry.
They’ve been echoing in my head for the past three days.
I play with the strings of my hoodie as I stare at Leo’s message and the series of texts that follow, demanding answers from him.
Why did he share my message with his friends? Why would he let them harass me over it? Over my job? Why did he see my message and not fucking respond?
What in the ever-loving hell did I do to him to make him do this? I never hurt him. I never tried approaching him beyond dropping into his inbox. I never did anything apart from looking through the information he’s made publicly available.
The only response I’ve gotten from him is silence, and the two ticks that tell me he’s seen my turmoil and chosen to ignore it. He’s decided to let me spiral.
Sorry? Fuck.
My computer chair squeaks as I tuck my legs against my chest, shoving my heel under me. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Once the sun came out and my brain lost its ability to function, I told him that he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever encountered, and I regretted ever reaching out to him.
It was a lie. In the back of my head, he’s still this dazzling prince who will whisk me off into the sunset.
There’s just something I’m missing. A misunderstanding.
Maybe he wasn’t part of what they were doing, or maybe they went behind his back—yes, this makes more sense.
The Leo I know isn’t the type to do something like this, especially when he keeps to himself and is never really seen out with the rest of his team.
I wish there was something I could do to get back at him.
Gripping my phone, I try to force myself to put it down and focus on my manuscript, but it’s impossible. I haven’t been able to work. Sleep. Eat. Engage in mindless conversation with Joyce.
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
The grief has crippled me to the point of emptiness, especially now that I know he’s aware I exist. He’s left me here, alone, to mourn what we should have been but never would have. Every crush I’ve ever had has ended badly. It’s laughable that a celebrity crush has too—so fucking brutally.
Just once I want to fall for someone and have them feel the same way as me.
But the newfound knowledge that this will forever be my fate stings far more.
First, my parents, and now this. I’m tired of housing the solitude that built a place in my heart when I was too young to realize that the empty space inside wasn’t just a canvas; it was loneliness.
Joyce hums to the music blasting through the sound system as she gets ready for work. “You sure you don’t want me to order any takeout for you? Like soup or some shit? Google said that’s what people on their deathbeds usually eat.”
I offer her the most reassuring smile I can muster. “I’ll be fine.” I won’t be. It’s been three days, and I haven’t found a way to dig myself out of the pit Leo pushed me into.
I’m so pathetic.
I’ve blamed my sour state on stress-induced illness. It isn’t entirely a lie.
“You sure?” She raises a brow. “What about a vodka shot to cleanse the germs? A concrete pill, perhaps? How’s this: I grind up some healing crystals and sprinkle them in your tea.”
I level her with a glare that makes her grin. “I think the burnout is just getting to me.” My voice comes out in an exhausted mumble—not faked.
Her lips pull in concern. I jolt when she throws something my way. A chocolate bar lands on my desk with an unceremonious thud, like the solution for all my problems fell from Heaven.
“I suppose it’s basically a natural remedy,” I mutter.
She snorts. “I’m heading out. I’m going to stay at Ben’s house tonight.”
My heart does a little jealous flip. They’ve been together for two and a half months and have already talked about moving in together.
While I’ll be stuck here. By myself. Probably moving back in with my parents.
Grieving over a man I was never with and saying goodbye to my career while hers prospers.
“Have fun at work,” I grumble. She’s hardly home anymore.
“Kill me now,” are her parting words as she shuts the door behind her.
I drop my head onto my desk. Kill me now, indeed. I’ve never felt so pitiful before. I’m not sure what makes me feel sick more: what Leo did, or the things his friends said.
Both, probably.
Negative critiques and hate messages over my interests and books are one thing. Getting sexualized for what I do to such a degree is a whole other level that I never prepared myself for. It’s like there’s an invisible layer of grime on my skin that I can’t scrub off, regardless of how hard I try.
I squeeze my eyes shut to stop them from heating with tears. I really didn’t need this shit when I’m on the cusp of giving up on my career.
My mother’s special ringtone blasts through the air. Fucking kill me. My hackles rise, and my heart seems to palpitate. God, save me from whatever fuckery she’s about to throw my way to make my mood go from bad to truly horrific.
“Why do you never call me?” she asks the second I answer the call.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
No hello? Typical.
This unplanned activity is setting my system into overdrive. Taking a deep breath, I internally count to three before responding. “Sorry, I have crazy deadlines right now. I haven’t even showered in days.” It’s a harmless white lie.
“Your mother is less important to you than some book? Good to know.” She sounds genuinely offended. “What did I do in my past life to deserve a daughter who doesn’t care about their mother?”
Manipulative bitch.
I need to do fucking breathing exercises to deal with her.
Rationally, I know I’m overreacting. It’s not that serious.
I should be used to it. But I can’t help it.
I can’t help that in the span of a breath, the well in my chest empties out and becomes filled with an all-consuming fury that I can feel in my marrow.
I rub my thigh and massage my calves, trying to soothe my racing pulse.
“Maybe if you became a nurse or studied business like I told you to, you wouldn’t be struggling so much.”
I bite my tongue. It’s about three years too late for that. Joyce and I dropped out of college in our second year when we decided that it would be a bright idea for a couple of twenty-year-olds to freelance and attempt to start a career from the ground up.
It worked out well for the both of us. Just at different time periods. I started off strong and ended up . . . here. Whereas Joyce struggled to begin with, and now she has a six-month waitlist, but still refuses to give up her side hustle from all the tips.
Regardless of how well we do or don’t do, we never tell our families the truth because they’ll take credit for successes they prayed would never eventuate.
“I wanted to tell you that Sandra’s daughter just got an internship at John Hopkins Hospital,” Mom starts. “She’s around your age. I’m so impressed. I always knew she was a smart girl.”
Here we go.
Putting the call on speaker, I flatten my forehead against the table and swallow back a frustrated groan.
Respectfully, fuck this. I can already tell what she’s going to say next. My mother is nothing if not predictable.
“She even found herself a rich husband.”
Called it.
It’s unnerving how quickly I picture myself walking down an aisle to a waiting Leo. But he has tattoos and an unrespectable job, so that’s an instant no from Mom.
“You know . . .” This can’t be good. “Jacob’s son from church will be moving back home because he got a good job at an accounting firm. Thomas is a good boy—you know him. Your dad and I invited them for dinner on Friday, and we said you’d be joining so you two can catch up.”
Absolutely not.
“Sorry, I already have a meeting booked—it’s for a podcast,” I lie.
She’s been trying to set me up with people from our—their—church for years.
Jacob’s—and I assume his son’s—delicate sensibilities would go up in flames if they found out about the varying levels of depravity I write about.
Even Mom would have a heart attack if she saw the blasphemous things I’ve gotten inked on my body.
She scoffs and continues on her rant about how wholly inadequate I am and how desperately I need to shack myself up with a good man. I hit my head on the table to momentarily distract myself from hearing everything she’s saying, only catching bits here and there.
“. . . not too late to go back to school and get a proper job . . .”
I grind my molars. Why does she have to keep bringing this up?
“Kathleen became an accountant when she was . . .”
Doesn’t she realize that I’m fully fucking aware of what a failure I am? I don’t need her constant reminders.
“Imagine what your kids will say when someone asks what their mom does . . .”
My stomach twists, and tears gather along my waterline. It was delusional of me to think that hearing this shit would get easier. Especially when I’m on the path to proving her right.
“If you had a respectable job like . . .”
The desk groans when my forehead collides with the surface again, doing the stupid, useless breathing exercises that hardly ever make me feel better.
My uterus cramps with mind-numbing pain, and still, I continue making noncommittal sounds every few seconds.
I doubt I’m responding at the appropriate time, but at this point I’d saw off my left limb to end this conversation.
In another universe, I’m fourteen years old, sitting at the kitchen table thinking that my parents love me no matter what I choose to do with my life.
In that universe, they want me to do what I love.
I’m not afraid of getting older or that I’ll slip down the path of failure because my safety net actually feels safe.
“. . . maybe a man would want you then, so you won’t be alone forever.”