Chapter 20
Coffee number three is stone cold at the edge of my desk, abandoned like the first two. The stack of case briefs in front of me looks less like paper and more like a slow form of death—highlighted margins, scribbled notes, and words that have lost their meaning somewhere around page forty-seven.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling a long breath. This is my Sunday. No brunch. No sleeping in. Nothing except me and a mountain of legal precedents that keep multiplying every time I blink.
Yesterday was supposed to buy me freedom. I knocked out most of my class assignments, convinced I’d be coasting today. I thought I might even be able to squeeze in that short story draft I promised myself I’d finally attempt for creative writing.
It was a cute idea. But it’s not happening.
After everything that happened on Thursday, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to make a good impression.
No one thinks I deserve to be there, and they’re probably right.
My father called me on Friday and tried to smooth everything over.
He said he really sees potential in me and that I’m worth more than my DNA to him.
As pathetic as it feels to admit, it was the biggest compliment he’s ever given me.
I agreed to stay, but only for Tiff and Ella.
They’re supposed to be here this week, and I’m not letting my father or Jonathan stop that from happening.
When I check my phone and see Zach’s name, I smile. I miss him. His long weekends away and my busier weekly schedule are making it harder for us to see each other. I dread thinking about how it’s all going to work when he gets drafted at the end of next year, but that’s a problem for another day.
Zach: Just got on the team bus. Flying back tonight but landing pretty late. Can I see you tomorrow? Miss you so much it hurts. Love you, Honeycomb.
My smile widens despite everything going on in my mind. Zach’s always so earnest, so certain. So completely mine, even when we're apart.
I type out a quick reply:
Honey: Yes please! Can’t wait. I miss you more than I’d like to admit in public.
Before I can set my phone down, another message pops up. Unknown number. My first instinct is to swipe it away and pretend I never saw it, but it’s there, staring me down.
Unknown: Thought you might want to see how your boyfriend looks at your “best friend” when you're busy getting them drinks.
Another message comes through.
Unknown: *Picture Attached*
Then another.
Unknown: Believing the rumors yet?
I tap the photo, and my smile fades. It’s a picture from the hockey game—the one where I left Jenni and Zach alone, praying they’d finally talk and call a truce. When I came back, the tension was seemingly gone; I thought they’d made peace.
But this picture? This picture makes it look like they were doing a hell of a lot more than making peace.
They’re sitting close, looking at something on her phone. Only… that isn’t hers. I don’t need to zoom to recognize the worn leather case with the faded St. Michael’s crest. It’s his.
Zach’s—in Jenni’s hand.
They just caught him at the wrong angle and timed the photo perfectly to make it look like he’s smirking.
He wouldn’t do that to me.
He couldn’t.
But the doubt doesn’t stop. It seeps in anyway, slow and toxic, slithering under my skin like smoke under a locked door. Curling, choking, whispering things I don’t want to hear.
Was Zach right from the start? Is Jenni into my boyfriend?
What if I've been blind? What if I've been so consumed with proving my independence that I've pushed him right into someone else's arms? My friend’s arms.
I delete the picture and block the number, even though I know it’s pointless. They’ll find me no matter how many times I do it.
New Message.
Jenni: Still on for dinner at 6? Need to vent about my lit professor before I lose my mind!
I glance at the clock. 5:30.
Right. Dinner.
I’d completely forgotten we made plans.
Part of me wants to stay here, bury myself under case files, and pretend if I work hard enough, I can drown out the poison of that anonymous message. Then I can lock the door and overthink in peace.
But the other part—the restless, starving part—knows I won’t survive that. I need air.
I need out.
If I’m brutally honest with myself, this isn’t just about breathing. It’s Jenni. Deep down I want to see her. To look her in the eye and decide for myself if that photo, and all the others I’ve been sent, are just as fake as I think they are.
Honey: Sure. Meet you in the dining hall in 30.
I shove the stack of legal documents into a folder and toss it onto my bed as if that’ll stop them from breathing down my neck. Spoiler: it won’t.
One glance in the mirror confirms what I already feel—I look wrecked.
I’m still in Zach’s sweatshirt from yesterday, my hair scraped back into a limp, messy bun, and dark circles shadow my eyes.
I look like someone who hasn’t slept in days—which, technically, isn’t far off.
If I’m going to survive facing people, I need to look less like a ghost of myself.
With a sigh, I peel off the sweatshirt, trade it for a pair of jeans and a clean sweater. Then I run a brush through my hair and swipe some concealer under my eyes. It’s not much, but it’s the best I can manage with my limited time and even less energy.
The dining hall is packed by the time I get there, but I easily spot Jenni in her usual spot.
“You look like death warmed over,” she says by way of greeting as I slide into the seat across from her.
“Thanks,” I reply dryly. “It's my new aesthetic.”
She laughs, pushing a tray of food toward me. “I grabbed you a burger and fries. Figured you needed actual sustenance, not whatever sad salad you'd choose yourself.”
It’s a sweet gesture, and guilt scrapes at my insides because part of me wants to believe her. That she’s my friend and the image of her leaning into my boyfriend while holding his phone is fake, but I can’t help wondering if I’m being na?ve.
“Thanks,” I say, staring down at the meat, remembering when Zach saved me from salads in high school. It was the first time I really started to feel something for him, and I miss how easy those days felt compared to now.
Jenni leans in, propping her chin on her hand. “So, how are you holding up after Thursday? That thing with your father’s partner was brutal.”
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically. It’s not the first time I’ve been disappointed by the adults in my life, and I have no doubts it won’t be the last.
“Bullshit,” Jenni says gently. “I saw your face when you told me about it. That had to hurt.”
“That’s life.”
“So that’s it? You’ve been miserable since you started there.” She raises her hand, pointing at me. “You look exhausted all the time, you’re stressed beyond belief, and now they’re treating you like garbage. What’s your plan?”
“To stay.”
“Pfft. Why?”
I don’t have an easy answer for that. Not one I’m willing to fully divulge to her, at least. So I opt for a half-truth instead.
“It’s complicated,” I say vaguely. “The internship… it doesn’t just give me college credit. It helps someone I care about. I can’t just walk away.”
“Noble,” Jenni says, “but ultimately self-destructive. You're killing yourself for other people's happiness. Seems to be a trait for you.” She narrows her eyes and tilts her head as she studies me. “When do you get to put yourself first?”
I don't have an answer for that. I've never been good at putting myself first. Maybe because I've never been entirely sure who “myself” even is.
My phone buzzes on the table between us, and I instinctively reach for it, even though I know I shouldn't. It's become a reflex at this point—see notification, feel dread, check anyway.
Unknown: Your boyfriend doesn’t just keep busy at home. He’s been sampling the sights on the road too. Maybe ask him about the brunette at the hotel bar last night—the one he couldn’t keep his hands off.
I close my eyes for a second, feeling that familiar knot twist in my stomach. When I open them, Jenni is watching me with a mixture of concern and annoyance.
“Another one?” she asks.
I nod, setting the phone face down. “It never stops.”
Jenni rolls her eyes. “This is exactly what I'm talking about. Another example of you bleeding yourself dry to make other people happy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You could just block all unknown numbers, you know?”
I shake my head. “I can't do that,” I protest. “My father told me I need to keep it open in case one of our clients calls. It’s… important.”
Her brow arches, proof enough of her point. Another rule I’m following that isn’t mine. When I don’t answer, she exhales hard and flicks her hand through the air. “So what—you’re just going to let people torture you, day after day?”
“It’s not torture.” My voice is flat and defensive.
“Right,” Jenni says, leaning back with her arms crossed. “I guess Martyrdom is a lifestyle choice now.”
“I’m not a martyr.”
“Sure.” She studies me, then suddenly straightens, her expression lighting up. “You know what? Drinks.”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Drinks,” she repeats. “Tonight. Right now. Oh, it’s the perfect idea.”
“Jenni, have you lost it?” I shake my head. “It’s Sunday night. I have so much work to catch up on, and I'm exhausted—”
“Exactly!” She cuts me off, leaning forward excitedly. “You're exhausted because you never do anything fun. It's the weekend, Honey. You're in college. Let's go.”
“I can't just—”
“Why not?” she challenges. “What's the worst that could happen? You have one drink, laugh a little, remember what it feels like to be a normal twenty-year-old?”
I stare at her for a second. “I have responsibilities. Work to catch up on. I can’t just drop everything and—”
“And what? Live a little?” Jenni reaches over and shakes my shoulders, making me laugh a little. “This is exactly what I'm talking about. You're so busy being the perfect student, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect intern that you've forgotten how to just be… you.”