Chapter 14 Sadie #2
It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not snap a discreet photo of Thorn, too—what is it about guys writing in journals on mountainside cliffs that is just so attractive?
—and, instead, use what’s left of my dwindling battery to check Instagram so I can finally upload a video or two from our first few days, and also to see if Abby’s posted any pictures from her date.
As soon as the app opens, I know I’ve made a colossal mistake.
At the top of my feed, there’s a carousel of photos posted by Gabriella Lawson, a friend of mine and Abby’s that we met at a book signing one time and have stayed loosely acquainted with ever since.
She’s posing on the back of a yacht in the first photo, wearing a fiery orange bikini that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination—the location tag reads Capri Isle, Sorrento, Italy, and it looks incredibly glamorous.
But it’s not the towering rock wall behind her, or the glittering sea, or even Gabriella and her runway-worthy bikini that makes my heart stutter—
It’s Caden.
Caden, with his arm around her, one finger hooked underneath the spaghetti-thin tie at her hip.
Caden, who never wanted to spring for any dinner dates that were remotely fancy.
Caden, whose idea of a weekend getaway included spontaneous road trips to ugly Texas beaches and motels that smelled like mildew.
Caden is on our vacation without me, in Italy, living like a prince, treating her like a princess.
And the cherry on top? I’m the one who introduced them.
I scroll through the photos, unable to stop myself.
My stomach drops when I realize: I recognize every single one of these places. I picked them out—I picked them out for us. The restaurants, the hotel. Every single detail has been plucked straight out of the shared Google Doc I created, except for the most crucial detail—
I was supposed to be there, too.
Olives and cheese and white wine in one picture, cacio e pepe in another. A hotel room that is the very definition of luxe, complete with a lush-looking bed covered in a rumpled white duvet. Expansive views out of open-air windows.
Breakfast in bed.
Espresso cups.
Her perfect crimson manicure.
Stilettos that even I wouldn’t risk walking in, despite how incredible they look. They look especially incredible on her.
And then—at the end—the way he’s kissing her, frozen in time for all perpetuity, preserved in her social media feed for the whole world to see.
I’m still staring at that last one when my phone dies. The image is burned into my brain: my ex-boyfriend—who dumped me for being too high-maintenance—on a glitzy trip to Italy that I planned—with someone I introduced him to—and not just any someone, but Gabriella Lawson.
Gabriella Lawson makes me look like an amateur when it comes to being high-maintenance.
Caden O’Connor is an absolute hypocrite.
He said he wanted to spend his time backpacking here in California, that Italy wasn’t his thing. So why am I the one who’s here, alone, while he’s on my dream vacation with someone else?
My tears fall fast and hot. I try to blink them away, swiping surreptitiously at my cheeks to dry them before Thorn looks over and asks me what’s wrong.
I need Abby, need to process this.
My portable charger is all the way back down at the tent, though, so I’m totally cut off from her until I can recharge it and get a signal again.
At the same time, as much as I want to talk to Abby—hear her rant about how I’m better off without Caden and maybe she and I can just go on a girls’ trip to Italy sometime instead—I kind of just want to throw my phone over the edge of this cliff and let it sink down to the bottom of the lake where I won’t have to look at it ever again.
I glance at Thorn. He’s still writing in his journal, oblivious to my crisis.
The journal is a good idea. I may not be able to talk to Abby, but I can write everything out like I’m writing to her, pretend it’s a series of texts. I know her well enough to predict her response—she’d send me a string of emojis, various iterations of shock and dismay and anger.
I start writing, my pen fast and furious on the page.
Everything I’ve pushed away for the past few months comes roaring back in messy blue ink: the anger I felt when Caden blindsided me with our breakup, how he treated my tendency to thoughtfully overprepare as a personality flaw.
So what if I have preferences? So what if I’m particular?
We only live one life—forgive me if I don’t want to spend it in a run-down hotel looking at a pipe spewing something brown out into the waters of Galveston!
Why would someone want to eat gas station hot dogs that have been getting wrinkly for hours (or—*shudder*—days) when there’s a farm-to-table brunch spot two more miles away?
Why would I buy a ten-pack of something cheap when I could buy one that will last longer for the same price?
Why did he act like it was a bad thing that I like to have a plan—like I was some sort of control freak?
I mean, yeah, I like to know what’s going to happen.
And I don’t like being caught off guard or unprepared.
Does that make me insufferable? Does that disqualify me from being girlfriend material?
The worst part is, he treated me this way only to start dating someone who is even more particular than I am. All the things that supposedly rubbed him the wrong way about me, all the things that made us incompatible—he’s going to get ten times more of them with Gabriella.
And I cannot for the life of me reconcile the fact that he’s in Italy.
The life Gabriella is living right now is such a stark contrast to where I am, roughing it out here in the middle of nowhere—
Those were supposed to be my olives and cheese.
My bed. My breakfast in that bed.
I desperately want that chilled glass of white wine, that view of the sea, that yacht.
I write and write and write, letting my most honest feelings pour out onto the page. And at the end of it, when there’s nothing left, I have an epiphany.
The thing I’m left with is this: as much as I wish I had Italy and all the things I’d planned, I no longer want any of those things with him. Our breakup stung when it happened, everything he said—and his shameless audacity, now, brings that pain acutely back to the surface—
But it isn’t Caden I want.
It’s air conditioning. It’s gourmet food. It’s a manicure, and not the makeshift kind I plan to do in my tent later. It’s everything I’ve been stripped of on this hike, all of the comforts that can blur the sharp edges of life when things get too painful or hard.
Without those little luxuries—when it’s just me and my blisters and the bugs—the painful and hard things have nowhere to hide.
I look up, take in the way the sunlight catches on the lake.
Thorn’s quiet beside me, but his journal is closed. He’s giving me space, I realize, even though he finished his own entry.
A lump forms in my throat, and I bite the inside of my cheek. My tears have finally dried, and I’m determined to keep it that way.
As challenging as this trip has been, and as drastically different as it is from the Italian vacation of my dreams, I’m not sorry I’m here. Maybe I initially signed up out of spite to prove to Caden I’m stronger than he thinks—but if I’m honest, I think I needed to prove it to myself, too.
I couldn’t care less about impressing Caden now. I have zero interest in being compatible with a hypocrite like him.
I feel a strange sense of peace settle over me. Clarity, contentment—
Closure.
Italy will still be there, waiting, at the end of all this.
As for today, I’m exactly where I need to be. And now I can move on.