Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Novalee
The apartment I share with Annabelle is a cozy two-bedroom with a living room that boasts a pink couch and a television snug against the small, cramped kitchen. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s the first place I’ve ever been able to truly call mine. And to me, it’s perfect.
Annabelle drops her purse on the counter, flashing me a grin as she slips off her heels. “Twinkie?” she asks, heading toward the kitchen.
“Sure,” I call out, already making my way to my bedroom. There’s something I need to take care of first. “Be right back.”
She doesn’t know about the watches, not that she needs to. I keep that part of my life tucked away, largely within the velvet box under my bed.
Once in my room, I shut the door quietly and let the familiar scent of vanilla and sweets wrap around me. For a moment, I lean against it as the weight of the night settles over me.
My fingers drift over my purse where I stashed the Rolex earlier. It’s been sitting there all night, a subtle reminder of the thrill, the tiny rush of power I felt when I slid it off that sleazy guy’s wrist without him noticing.
Leaving it there any longer feels wrong. Like it doesn’t belong to me yet, not fully—not until it’s nestled with the others, where it becomes more than just a watch, it becomes part of the story, part of him .
Because it’s not just about the ritual but about preserving the moment while it’s still fresh before the adrenaline has fully faded. If I wait too long, the memory and connection will dull.
That can’t happen.
I push off the door and kneel beside my bed, my heart still buzzing faintly from the memory. Reaching underneath, I feel for the velvet box, and the soft fabric brushes my fingertips like an old friend’s as I slide it into the light.
The box is a deep, rich purple, and I open the lid slowly to savor the moment as my collection is revealed. A sea of watches. At least fifty of them scattered in organized chaos. They range from modern designs to vintage timepieces, each a trophy from nights like tonight.
I could sell them. God knows they’re worth more than I’d make in a lifetime at Euphoria. Each would fetch a small fortune, even under the table. But that’s not why I take them.
Even if they could be my ticket out of here.
Selling them would feel… cheap. Dirty.
Like I’d be betraying something. Or rather someone. The someone who taught me all I know.
But it’s more than that. It would be risky. Too risky. The moment I tried to sell one, even in some back-alley deal, I’d be exposing myself, and although I could use the money, I don’t need that kind of heat. No, I’d rather keep them hidden, where they’re safe.
I retrieve the Rolex from my purse and carefully place it with the others. Then, with a click, I close the box and slide it back under the bed, hiding it where it belongs.
Every watch tells a story—his story, their story, mine. They’re reminders of who I’ve been, where I’ve been. Each one marks a moment, a night, a person who looked at Glitter and saw only what I wanted them to see.
But the watches, they see me. They keep the time I’ll never get back.
When I rejoin Annabelle in the living room, she’s already sprawled on the couch, a Twinkie in hand. “What took you so long?” she teases, tossing the pack toward me.
“Nothing,” I reply with a shrug, catching the pack and grabbing one for myself before collapsing beside her.
The adrenaline from the car ride has already sobered me up from drunk to tipsy, which I hate.
Annabelle reaches over to the side table and picks up the picture frame that’s been sitting there since we moved in. “We got old, Nova.” Her voice tinges with that bittersweet tone that only comes after too many drinks.
It’s a photo of us from six years ago—bright-eyed, with no idea what the hell we were getting ourselves into.
“Oh, shut up, we’re only twenty-four,” I retort, rolling my eyes even as I smile.
“And we were eighteen when we started all of this,” she murmurs, a wistful look in her eyes as she gazes at the photo.
“True,” I agree, the memories flashing through my mind.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Arriving in Las Vegas with nothing but maybe fifty bucks in my pocket and the weight of everything I’d left behind. It was me and the dream I’d shared with him . Except once here, I realized dreams don’t mean shit when you don’t have a place to stay or a plan to survive .
Or the person you dreamed them with next to you.
I ended up in a bubble tea café, of all places, satisfying the craving for my favorite drink before facing the reality of being broke and alone in a city that couldn’t care less. If my time in Vegas was going to be short-lived, I figured I might as well enjoy something I loved.
That’s when Annabelle walked in, looking flustered and a little desperate. She was trying to shake off a guy and asked me to pretend to be her friend. She’d just moved into this apartment, and her previous roommate had left out of nowhere days before, so she needed a new one to help her pay the rent. She offered me a place to stay, and the rest—as they say—is history.
We’re still here, still friends, and still drinking bubble tea.
Only now, she’s moving on, ready to start the next chapter of her life. And as much as I’m going to miss her, I’m happy for her. She deserves all the happiness in the world, even if it means I’ll be left behind in this place that always feels empty without her.
Annabelle sighs and leans her head on my still-glittery shoulder, holding the picture frame in front of my face. “I’m gonna miss this, you know? Just us, hanging out like this.”
“Yeah.” I reach over to brush a stray piece of blue wig from her face. “Me too.”
The truth is, it’s already felt as if I’ve been living alone. Watching her pack up the pieces of her life over the past few weeks has been like watching someone dismantle a home, brick by brick. It’s not just her leaving. It’s everything she’s taking with her—the laughter, lightness, and hope I’ve borrowed all these years.
When she’s gone, this place won’t feel like it’s mine anymore. It’ll just be walls and silence.
Ever since she started dating Michael six months ago, she’s been spending more and more time at his place. It almost feels like I’ve been easing into the idea of her moving out without even realizing it.
Some of the girls from the strip club have already asked about the room, but the thought of sharing this space with someone else doesn’t sit right with me.
It was hard enough letting Annabelle in, but she’s different. I love this girl, and even if I didn’t want to admit it at first, she’s become something like my family.
The others… I don’t know them, not really. More importantly, I’m not sure I want to.
I take the picture frame from her, running my thumb over the glass. “We were so dumb and na?ve then.”
Annabelle sits up and scoots closer, her knees brushing against mine as she reaches for my hair. Her fingers glide through with ease, weaving it into a French braid, just like she always does before we go to bed. I’m hopeless with that kind of thing.
Rosalee always did this for me. I swallow hard, trying to push the memory away.
Wrong train of thought, Novalee.
“At least we’re only dumb now,” Annabelle quips, giving my braid a playful tug, and I have to bite back a laugh.
“Oh, you know I love you to bits, Belle, but you’re still fucking na?ve.” I roll my eyes and nudge her with my elbow.
She pauses for a moment, fingers lingering on my hair. “Maybe,” she murmurs, and there’s an acceptance in her voice that makes something inside me twist with envy.
I’d love to be so carefree and optimistic about everything.
Her hands start moving again, faster now, as if trying to distract herself.
“Not maybe, you are. I know you,” I insist, turning to catch her eye .
Annabelle sighs and ties off the braid with an elastic from her wrist, letting her hands fall into her lap. “Yeah, well, I don’t know you at all, really. You’re closed off like a military asset, and that’s just sad. You’re my best friend, and I have no idea who you are.”
She’s not wrong. I spent years building walls so high that no one could climb them, not even her. It’s safer. No one can hurt you when they can’t get close enough to know you. But sometimes, on nights like this, I wonder what it would feel like to let someone in. Just once.
“Belle—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“I worry about you, you know? I don’t even know if I can leave you. You will probably die alone in a pink wig, suffocated by glitter.”
I blink, surprised by the raw honesty. Wow.
She’s not wrong, though.
And it took her six years and five vodka cranberries to say that out loud.
I snicker and am about to brush it all off with another joke when there’s a tapping on the glass balcony door. The sound is a welcome distraction, and I smirk as I stand.
“I will die as a cat lady,” I promise, making my way over. Sliding it open, I let the night air spill into the room as I reach for the sweet little tabby cat with green eyes waiting for me. “Hello, Good Lookin’,” I purr, scooping her into my arms.
Good Lookin’ is a stray who decided our place was her early morning stop for pets and wet food before sleeping off her adventures for a few hours. Then she’s gone again, off to whatever other life she leads.
She’s basically me in cat form.
I plop back down on the couch next to Annabelle, stroking the cat as she purrs loudly, a contented vibration that somehow soothes the raw edges of my thoughts .
“Nova, I mean it.” Annabelle brings me back to the present, cutting through the purring. There’s a seriousness there that makes me pause. “I want so badly for you to find someone too.”
I know she’s talking about love, about the kind of happily ever after that she’s always dreamed of. She’s in Vegas because someone once told her that if you feel a strong connection or pull toward a certain city, it’s because your soulmate is waiting there for you. And so she came here, full of hope and belief.
I came here even though I knew mine wouldn’t be.
“There’s no one for me out there, and that’s fine. Good Lookin’ and I will have such a good time with dancing, boys, and parties,” I say in a baby voice to the cat, who’s still purring like a motorboat in my lap.
I had her spayed when she kept coming back, making sure she could keep her carefree party lifestyle—the same way I had my tubes tied when I turned twenty-one.
I don’t trust myself with pills, shots, or any of that.
“Of course there is,” Annabelle insists, and the sincerity makes my chest tighten. “You will find Mr. Right, and then you’re gonna want to marry him and make pretty babies. You’ll see.”
“Yeah, no thanks.” I chuckle, the sound hollow in my ears. I know that not one of those things is in the stars for me.
Not that I want them to be.
I’m not mom material. Never have been.
“You won’t get to experience the great feeling of unconditional love for a child,” she murmurs, almost to herself. I can hear her longing, and I know she wants to be a wife and mother so badly.
“There are a lot of great feelings I won’t experience in my lifetime. I heard crystal meth is a pretty cool feeling too… maybe even better than having kids. I’m not planning to experience that either, though.”
She gives me a look, one of those half-amused, half-exasperated glares she’s perfected over the years, and I laugh, the sound a little more genuine this time. “It’s good to have hopes and dreams, you know, manifest that shit. Like I did. I’ll get everything I ever wanted.”
“And I love that for you, Belle.”
Annabelle leans back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling, and I lean my head on hers, letting the moment stretch out, filled with the quiet understanding that this is the end of an era. We sit like this for a while, the empty Twinkie wrappers crumpled on the coffee table, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the purr of the cat in my lap. It’s comforting, even as Annabelle’s words echo in my head.
When Good Lookin’ jumps off me, I untangle myself from Annabelle and stand, heading to the kitchen almost on autopilot. The scrape of the can opener and the clink of the food dish give me something to focus on. A way to avoid looking too closely at the ache her words stirred up.
I watch the tabby eat, her little tail twitching with satisfaction, and I wonder what it would be like to have the kind of hope Annabelle has—to believe that happiness, even love, is waiting out there, just around the corner, if I’d only go looking. But I know better. My hopes and dreams died on a dark road eight years ago, alongside the only two people who ever really knew me.
Annabelle stretches and comes to stand beside me. Good Lookin’ finishes eating and pads off, probably back to her little bed in the corner of my room, but I don’t follow. Instead, I turn to Annabelle and pull her into a tight hug, holding on longer than I normally would .
“I’m so glad you’re happy, Belle.” I kiss her cheek. “You deserve every good thing coming your way.”
Her brows furrow, and she steps back, looking at me critically as if trying to find the cracks I’m so good at hiding. “You deserve it, too, Nova.”
I smile faintly, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “We can both be glad I haven’t gotten what I deserve yet,” I say with a wry edge, stepping away before she can press the issue.
My bed is calling my name, and I collapse into it, not giving a fuck about closing the door, washing off my makeup or the rest of the glitter.
My bed already looks like a unicorn puked all over it.
The aftermath of many nights spent pretending to be someone else. I close my eyes, willing the thoughts away, letting the familiar numbness creep in. That’s all there is now. Surviving. Forgetting. Getting through one day, one night, until there’s nothing left to feel.
I tell myself I’m fine. I survived tonight like I’ll survive tomorrow.
But as the darkness creeps in, I wonder how much longer I can keep surviving without ever really living.