Chapter 2 #2
My throat tightens. She’s always said this.
I’ve heard it since I was a kid. Mom always had some issue about how I looked: too skinny, too fat, not skinny enough.
At one point my forehead was too big, but then I got “If you cover your forehead, all I see is your big nose.” And after an hour of obsessing about my appearance, trying on ten different outfits, redoing my makeup twice, and starving myself so my stomach was flat in the dress: “Maybe if you cared more about how you looked, people would like you more.”
I just . . . I don’t know how to make friends. I can’t deal with the small talk, or planting jokes at the right time, or respond to what people are saying without making it sound like I’m making it about myself when I’m just attempting to relate and conversate.
It’s easier to keep to myself where I don’t embarrass myself.
“You need to actually try to—”
These breathing exercises better work.
Inhale.
The faintest scent of cinnamon and something woodsy filters through my senses.
I glance up, searching the room for any new candles.
I’ve been smelling it on and off for weeks but haven’t been able to put my finger on it.
My attention snags on a paperback on my desk, and my mood sours even more.
Joyce knows how much it pisses me off when she dog-ears my books—and that one is signed.
Exhale.
“Some things don’t change—like Joyce being your only friend . . .” I suck in a sharp breath and try to distract myself from her words by tidying up my station. Don’t say anything. Just breathe. “. . . bad influence on you. She only likes you because . . .”
I tune her out. I can’t listen to this. I can’t.
Inhale—fuck it.
A lone tear trickles from the corner of my eye.
I frantically swipe it away. If I start crying, I’m going to get hysterical and I’m never going to stop, then Mom will give me shit for being so dramatic and emotional.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pick at the skin around my nails, which are already crusted with blood from the stress of the past week.
The pain is a welcome distraction as she continues on her barrage.
Minutes tick by, but I’ve stopped processing what she’s saying, sticking to making noncommittal sounds and hoping I’m not agreeing to anything.
My fingers start moving over my keyboard without me fully realizing what I’m doing.
I’ve pulled up Leo’s profile on my computer to see the picture he posted after the game three days ago.
My chest constricts at his full-blown smile as he skates off the ice, celebrating his team’s win.
Everything about him soothes this aching part of my soul that’s never felt quite right.
I just . . . I want it to be my turn. I deserve to have my chance, don’t I? I deserve to have my Romeo after dedicating years of my life to writing about Prince Charmings.
“So, what will it be, Mina?”
I blink. Opening and closing my mouth.
Shit. What was she talking about?
“I’ll be telling Jacob that you agree.”
Oh.
“This is for your future. Not mine.”
I swallow. I wish I could yell at her. Scream that the last three years weren’t a waste, and she’s wrong. That I’m enough. My job is enough. That I’m worth more than a ring that will chain me to servitude with a man I’ll never want.
But I can’t say no.
Despite how hard I try to say what I want to say, every voice in my head is berating me because what if she’s right? What if she has a point, and I’m too stubborn to see it? She said I’d never make it as an author, and she wasn’t wrong about it.
Maybe she’s right about everything else too.
Reluctantly, I mutter, “Yes.”
The tears keep falling as I stare at the picture of Leo, imagining what it would be like if I were to introduce him to my family and tell them that I’m done being controlled by them.
That they can’t manipulate or guilt-trip me into agreeing to things I don’t want to do, just because they’re my parents.
I don’t see either of those two things happening anytime soon.
“Good. I’ll let you know when and expect you there. Please return your containers,” Mom says as farewell.
The line goes dead, and my emotions pour out.
God, she’s such a bitch. I hate her. I hate her. What the hell is her problem? Why does she dislike me so much? I launch to my feet. The chair skids back, hitting a side table. Crimson bleeds around my vision as I pace the small area between the kitchen and the living room.
Breathe, Mina. Breathe, I repeat in my head, rapping my fingers on my thigh. Pointer. Middle. Ring. Pinky. Thumb. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I just wish they’d be happy for me. Just once I want her to be proud of what I’ve accomplished. It’s hard to accept that she’ll never see me as anything but a failure.
Maybe . . . if she had supported me, I might be doing better. Maybe if she showed even an ounce of pride over anything I’ve ever done for myself, it wouldn’t feel like every person in the world would prefer if I didn’t exist right now.
Because Jack was right; I’ll never deserve Leo.
The anger coursing through me threatens to swallow me whole. I need to throw up. Break something. Scream. Reach between my ribs and rip my heart out. Drink until I black out so everything will stop for ten fucking minutes.
I keep pacing.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
Pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
My trembling fingers lock at the base of my skull, and I open my lungs to drag in oxygen. Count down from ten, then back up again. Why can’t I just breathe? Am I incapable of that too? It’s something so basic and mindless that everyone else has no trouble doing. This is why I deserve Mom’s ire.
The sound of my phone makes me flinch. Because I’m stupid and never know what’s good for me, I check it.
Another comment from one of Leo’s friends.
At least I have the self-restraint to stop myself from reading it.
Whatever it says will only make things worse.
And if things get worse, then my lungs will stop working.
And if my lungs stop working, my skin will feel too tight.
Like it doesn’t belong to my body. Like it doesn’t fit. And I have to claw it off.
My phone buzzes again.
I snatch it off the table and send it flying across the room. The resounding thud does nothing for me. Why can’t those assholes leave me alone?
My pacing comes to a screeching halt. Why did I just do that? What if I broke my phone? I can’t afford a new one.
Sprinting to the other side of the living room, I crash to my knees before it. It’s fine. It’s not broken.
Another buzz.
Then another.
My profile has blown up from all the engagement, and my sales have shot through the roof. My books are even charting. Because of them. Him.
If it continues like this, I might be able to afford to try publishing one more book if the upcoming one doesn’t pan out for me. It’s bittersweet, yet I can’t find it in me to be happy about any of it.
Tears soak into my hoodie as I wipe my face against my shoulder.
At some point over the past three days, I stopped checking my messages and comments.
I thought it would be over after one drunken night.
It was wishful thinking that blocking them would be enough for them to call it quits and leave me alone, because it turns out they have burner accounts.
Staggering upright, I shuffle to my desk and drop into my seat, feeling too exposed in the empty room.
I force my fingers to move over the keyboard and write my fucking book, but I’m at war with my brain, trying to get it to focus and stop imagining another world where someone might want me.
It’s a fantasy—not real. Words flow through my fingers, but none of it makes sense.
It’s all staggered and messy and awful because I’m not a good author at all.
No one wants to read my books, so why am I bothering with this?
In the end, make-believe wins—not that I ever stood a chance against my own delusions.
Up here, in the clouds, I’m safe. Leo is there, smiling down at me and telling me how utterly perfect I am.
There’s no mom or dad to make me feel like shit, or men who make my skin crawl.
Here, Leo is Blake, and I get my happily ever after.
The document on my screen blurs. Then the computer goes dark with sleep. All the while my phone keeps vibrating every few minutes. Again. And again.
And again.
Twisted hope blossoms in me with every notification that it might be Leo—like it is in my dreams. He finally realized we were meant to be together, and he knows me just as well as I know him, and he’s come to whisk me away into the sunset.
Our conversation thread is the first thing I check when I wake up, and the last thing I see before I go to bed.
Leo has to know that we have a connection.
A soul-deep one that transcends distance and time.
It can’t be one-sided. I refuse to believe it when clearly he’s seen my message and has been thinking of me—why else would his friends know about me?
This is just one big misunderstanding, that’s all.
His friends are the ones who’ve taken it too far, thinking they can push me around like my parents do. It makes them feel in control. My parents want a quiet, well-behaved girl who has five kids, dresses up for her husband, and makes dinner for her family every day without complaint.
Leo’s friends? I’m not sure what exactly it is they want, but I’m not going to take it.
The first comment at the top of my notifications is—predictably—Jack’s. The lone soldier left on this crusade to tarnish my space. He was smart enough to use spare accounts, but it’s undoubtedly him. Correct punctuation, capital letters, and no emojis or abbreviations.
He flip-flops between being a perverted pig and outright degrading me. I’m not sure which I hate more.
Jack: I’ll show you what a real man looks like.