Your Biggest Fan

44. ROXANNE

Chapter forty-four

My thumbs throb as I tack up the last film photo on my overcrowded wall. Stepping back, the collage of memories from the past year smile down at me like a bunch of goofy little yearbook photos.

I’d added some new ones that Stephanie took of us before the Halloween party, and one where we made spaghetti with her mom at Thanksgiving and ran around yelling catchphrases in bad Italian accents all night. There is also a picture from around Christmas where Daniel and Noah had on these reindeer antlers they made out of sticks and were screaming out to Jingle Bell Rock during practice. My favorite is the one of Noah trying to fit a whole gingerbread man in his mouth.

It’s official. Snapshots with Noah now outnumber the fading ones with Harley. My heart warms knowing that, but my head continues to spin in a million directions.

I thought replacing the old photos would quiet those voices of self doubt. Noah is nothing like Harley. He’s so open about what he feels, hilarious without trying, grounds me instead of sweeping me away in highs and lows. We connect.

Noah is the one who deserves space on my wall and in my heart going forward.

Then why do Harley’s actions, now months old, still sting like a fresh cut? Why can’t I freaking let it go and simply let Noah’s light eclipse that darkness? Harley is a lying, backstabbing douchecanoe who doesn’t deserve a single ounce of my mental energy.

I groan, flopping back on my bed. God, I’m so fucking annoying. This is annoying. I am annoying. Trust me, I know.

Yesterday, I was digging around in my nightstand for my magic 8-ball for some proper guidance, when an old photo of Harley fell out, stirring up all those feelings of not measuring up and being a chain smoking punk loser. Seeing his stupid, Twizzler walrus smiling face reminded me all over again of the way things had ended, making those ugly thoughts eat away at me.

I dragged my sorry ass to the mini-lab with my camera. One hour and way too many quarters later, I started tearing down the old photos with my newly developed ones in my hands, and the moment I stuck a tack beside Noah’s face—and didn’t want to stab through it—it hit me how much I’ve changed. How much he’s the reason for my growth.

He’s not afraid to tell me things that make me feel warm inside, he pushes me to do things that make me nervous, and he sees my messiness and calls it beautiful. It genuinely feels like he’s the first person I can be undeniably myself with.

Weirdness and all.

He’s always pulling me in his direction, and even though it wasn’t the direction I was looking for, my favorite part of the day is when I come home from work and spend hours on the phone with him, talking about anything and everything.

Yet despite Noah's sunshine, the noise in my head persists. I can’t make sense of any of it. I thought I could bury it all, but no, Harley’s dumb walrus face had to fall out and remind me it isn’t that simple.

I don’t want to lose this fucker yet. I’ve got to figure out what’s so deeply rooted inside me and kill it before it kills everything else.

I reach for my magic 8-ball, give it a shake, and ask, “Will I ever get my shit together?”

It replies: “Ask again later.”

Figures.

My eyes are drawn back to that face on my wall. You know the one. There’s something about him that distinguishes him from everyone else, like he has his own spotlight following him around. Noah seriously glows, and that light extends to everyone around him—making even the most hardened of hearts more susceptible to his charm and energy.

I would know because it happened to me.

It’s a little amusing how he tries so hard to be trouble, but that innate niceness inevitably shines through. He can’t help himself no matter how bad he thinks he looks. He’s a tough cinnamon roll, crunchy on the outside, but gooey and sweet once you bite.

I keep smiling up at the photo, lost in his face as I listen to Survivor blaring out my feelings on the radio. I love that cinnamon roll, but god, we really do have such a complicated dynamic.

It gives me whiplash, but also makes my heart race how one second we’ll be glaring at each other from across the room, then in the next, our bodies are pressed together in the backseat of my car.

Even brushing shoulders in the hall sets off this giant spark that ripples under my skin, giving me instant goosebumps. It’s in those moments something magical pass between us, a warmth that shimmers over me as if I’ve been doused in glitter.

It’s everywhere, all the time. It dances on my skin walking to practice, lights up my insides in English class, makes me fumble vinyls at work. It’s swirling all around me when Noah does something stupidly sweet, like showing up with a donut “just because.”

I felt it big time the night he first called me and, so simply, asked, “Do you miss me?”

Holy hell. I really am in love with Noah Jackson.

Every time I think about it, it hits me in the middle of my throat.

I’m in love with him. I’m in love with the man I used to hate with the same fury of butthole lipstick marks.

Not only does he make me love him, but he makes me love myself even more, too.

How the hell did we get here? When did this happen? And more importantly, what the hell am I supposed to do now?

My face overheats while my heart rabbits against my ribs. It’s my usual reaction when I think about him lately.

I wanted the hot frontman Noah, but now I want the Noah who wraps me up in a towel when I’m soaked from the rain.

Damn. Damn damn damn.

Do I tell him? Do I lock myself in my room and listen to sad love songs until I die of embarrassment? Do I join a convent and take a vow of silence so I never have to deal with these feelings?

I groan and bury my face in my pillow, hoping it might smother these inconvenient emotions. Fat chance of that. They’re as stubborn as I am.

Love. What a crock of shit. What a beautiful, terrifying, exhilarating crock of shit.

I jump up and pace back and forth around my bed. Today is our first practice since the show. How am I supposed to look him in the eye, knowing that every time he smiles at me, I want to shrink up and live inside of his pocket?

I can’t do this. I can’t be in love with him.

For the sake of my heart, I hope this is a temporary insanity—a really intense fleeing infatuation that’s going to go away once it’s all over. Then he’ll go back to being the guy who ticks me off and tests my patience.

Even Lee Aaron is looking down on me from my wall and scoffing ‘ yeah right , babe .’

I flop back down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, but all I see are those blue eyes hidden in the navy paint all over the room. All I see is him. All I feel is him, in every cell of my body, every corner of my heart.

None of it explains this nagging feeling in the back of my mind that’s holding me back from going all in. It’s not about leaving town, or that I’m in love with him. And it’s definitely not my anxiety ghost (though that little fucker is probably having a field day right now).

No, it’s something that runs deeper than that.

My eyes move back to the pictures above all my records. I don’t quite understand why I would still be so hung up on the past. I can say with absolute certainty I have long forgotten what it’s like to be with Harley.

What the hell is it? Is it because Noah unleashed this sexual deviant inside of me, and all of these new, intense emotions are too much to handle? Is it something I’ll eventually learn to get used to, like adjusting to a new class schedule every year? Or... fuck, am I still worried about Noah playing me?

I mean, it adds up. Every girl is tripping over themselves for the hot musician’s attention. He acts fully committed to me, but I can’t say I ever truly stopped wondering if I was one more girl in a long line of fans. And the idea that I might be temporary for him whereas he has become central to me? That hurts more than anything Harley had done.

The more I chew on it, the more I start to think that it’s not about Harley at all. It could be the fear of history repeating itself, of getting my heart broken all over again.

But none of those reasons feel quite right, either.

Obviously, seeing that walrus face photo triggered something in me. I need it to go away, and while I thought it would happen as I got back to being myself, it’s not.

Ugh . Feelings. Why can’t I make out with the hot musician boy I want without strategizing it like a game of Battleship?

My ears perk up at the sound of paper flapping against the wall. Leaning up on my elbows, I notice a photo that must have fallen when I was in my rush of redecorating.

I push off my bed and reach out to pick it up off the carpet, looking down at Riley’s face smirking up at me, her arm draped around me and Eden in Josie’s garage. Her straight strawberry-red hair and cutting hazel eyes taunt me even now.

The photo trembles in my hand. Riley. Fuck.

I thought I’d trashed every last picture of her.

And that’s when it all falls into place.

It’s not about Harley. It’s not even really about Noah. It’s about trust . It’s about letting someone in so completely that they have the power to absolutely destroy you.

Riley was someone I considered a friend before she became known as the other woman, and that betrayal affected me more deeply than Harley’s. My wounds with her cut deep, damaging the very foundation of who I thought I was.

Harley wasn’t alone in what he did to me.

I still carry Riley’s voice in my head, her snide comment about my drumming skills digging under my skin like a tick. The image of her red nails clawing up Harley against that tree while simultaneously stabbing me in the fucking back. She’s this piece of meat stuck in my teeth and I can’t find a toothpick to save my life.

I never stopped tonguing at it. As I felt myself getting stronger with Noah by my side, it was always her voice that whispered it was only a matter of time before he realized I’m inadequate, too.

Their actions confirmed all my worst fears about myself. That I’m not talented enough, not pretty enough, not good enough to keep someone’s interest, especially if my own boyfriend and friend couldn’t resist hooking up behind my back. There’s something fundamentally unlovable about me that makes people want to use me and then toss me aside when they find something better.

Every time I start to let my guard down with Noah, Riley’s face slides right back to the front, reminding me how quickly someone can go from claiming to love you to screwing your friend against a tree.

I hate them for taking away my ability to trust, not only in others, but in myself. I second-guess every interaction, every hint of affection, wondering if it’s genuine or another damn lie.

I hate them. I hate them so goddamn much. They made me think for a second that I couldn’t even blame them, because sometimes I was convinced that if I were prettier, smarter, more talented, more interesting, then they wouldn’t have strayed.

Fuck that. None of this is my fault.

I keep staring at Riley’s photo, and my emotions start to make sense. What bothers me now isn’t the mere fact of her betrayal, but the missing explanations. She and Harley had blown my world apart, then left me picked clean without so much as a “sorry, my bad.”

“Fuck her,” I mutter under my breath, staring at the clueless girl I was, smiling into the camera with her. If Riley’s haunting me, then she’s the ghost I need to get rid of—not Harley.

Crumpling up the picture, I let it fall into the trash, and head for the door. I’ll be back in ten minutes, tops, and since my mom’s not home, I don’t bother locking up behind me.

I’m an idiot for taking this long to figure out that this is what I needed to do. For months, I’ve been tortured by the whys: why they’d hurt me, why I’d never seen the signs, why I hadn’t been enough for Harley. Their silence had left too much room for my insecurities to grow toxic vines, strangling me at any chance at inner peace.

I’m fucking over it.

My real healing can begin once I rip out her venomous thorns by the root.

I march out to my car, my heart pounding as I turn the key in the ignition. I back out of the driveway, tires screeching against the pavement as I speed off to cross the other side of the pond, loose junk rattling in the backseat as I hit every pothole.

I roll down the windows, blasting my music at full volume. I sing along at the top of my lungs, starting to feel freer the closer I get to that neighborhood. I’m about to throw away the heavy chains that have been weighing me down.

By the next song, I’m pulling up in front of Riley’s house. My stomach cramps, and I’m woozy from skipping meals all day, but I can’t bring myself to give a shit right now as I practically fall out of my car.

My breath comes out in angry puffs as I storm up the perfect sidewalk of the large brick house in the same fancy neighborhood as Noah’s. Riley’s shiny white BMW glints in the driveway, confirming she’s home.

I raise my fist on the front door and pound. I don’t know what I might say or do when that door opens. I’ve never confronted anyone like this before.

My hand shakes as I keep knocking. Whatever I decide to say, I'm not backing down. I’m done hiding, done pretending I’m okay when I’m anything but.

I take a deep breath, crossing my arms as I hear footsteps approaching from inside.

This is it. No turning back.

The door swings open, and I stumble back a step when I see Hayden Peterson filling the doorway. Golden Boy himself stands there in a colorful Hypercolor t-shirt under his letterman swim jacket, the two inch strands of blonde hair gelled back into tiny spikes.

He smirks as he leans against the doorframe. “Wow. Finally come to your senses?”

I blink fast. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, sweetheart.”

I shake off my confusion, remembering my mission and standing taller. “Is Riley here?”

Hayden keeps the door open with his foot, crossing his arms against his chest. “My sister’s upstairs in her room.”

Sister?

My brain stalls. How the…

“Riley is your sister ?”

“ Step sister.”

I take another step back.

I'm… Sorry, what now?

I’ve known of these people for years and have literally been to Riley’s house for sleepovers, even a barbecue once over the summer. But...

Shit. Have I ever actually seen them together in this house?

I search my head, trying to recall a single instance where I’ve seen Riley and Hayden in the same room and come up empty. It’s like they’ve been living two separate lives that only meet up on their parents’ front porch.

The longer I stare at Hayden, the more I start to think they could be biological because he wears the same smile that makes me want to punch him.

“Since when are you two… siblings?”

“Since our parents got married last year,” he answers.

Hold the fucking phone.

It was Hayden who Harley had started hanging around over the summer before all of this drama happened. This must be the connection, how he met my backstabbing ex-friend in the first place.

At least now I know why Riley always seemed to have an endless supply of swimwear catalogs lying around.

Hayden is still watching me, enjoying whatever he’s seeing from me right now. I glance down at my black buttoned-up flannel, which is so oversized it’s swallowing my leggings.

Great, I look like a lumberjack.

I straighten up again and drum my fingers against my biceps. “Are you going to let me in?”

His grin drops at this new, ballsier version of me, and he hesitates for a second longer before he steps aside, allowing me to brush past him into the huge foyer, the floral wallpaper and ivory tiles under my docs triggering memories of all the times I’d been here.

“She’s all yours,” he says, right before he closes the door.

I stare up at the glass shade surrounding the chandelier above me, and my hands curl into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. The pain distracts me from the tightening that’s forming in the center of my chest.

All I can picture are the many times Harley had brushed off my questions about his plans with “friends.” How often had he hidden away here with Riley instead, laying on her side of the bed where I used to lay, or called me from her house phone?

My reflux from lack of food makes bile rise in my throat. God, I’ve been such a fool.

“It’s up the stairs and to the—”

“Right. I know,” I grumble. I don’t need his directions. I can find my way to her room with my eyes closed.

My fingers grip the banister as I climb the wooden staircase, family photos smiling down at me proving me to be an even bigger dumbass. I pride myself on being observant, so I don’t know how I missed all these clues. I guess I had been so stupidly focused on having a good friendship with Riley for the sake of our band that I ignored the obvious ties staring me in the face.

I shake off my annoyance. None of that matters now.

The second-floor hallway leads off in one direction, the bright window at the end of the hall highlighting the series of identical closed doors. The sound of pop music thumping behind one of them guides me down, my boots sinking into the cream carpet.

My lungs constrict tighter with every step that brings me closer to her room, but I clench my jaw, ignoring all the Peterson wealth trying to intimidate me. I need to stand before her and demand all the answers.

She owes me this.

At my knock, a bored voice responds. “It’s open.”

I turn the glass knob, the door pushing open to Riley sitting on her massive white four-poster canopy bed, craning her head around an issue of Seventeen to see me. A radio on the matching lacquered nightstand blares the local station as she leans over the bed, painting her toenails a bright purple.

“Roxy?” Her hazel eyes blow wide, the brush smearing across her big toe.

I smile a little at her reaction. It’s exactly what I was hoping for.

As I step further into the room, the smell of her clove cigarettes slams into me as I look around to see that everything is the exact same—shades of peach and cream, a cushy egg chair in the corner piled with throw pillows, pop band posters hanging up on the walls. The window seat is still covered with heart-shaped pillows in pastel colors.

Everything looks soft, feminine, even unthreatening.

But then there’s Riley.

I see past all this sugary camouflage and right down to the ruthlessness lurking below the surface despite her obvious confusion at my sudden presence.

She sets the polish down on the table, tilting her head. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I let the door click shut behind me. “Getting what you never gave me.”

Good thing I didn’t say something melodramatic like, ‘the piper has come to collect.’

“A little late for that, don’t you think?” She tosses the magazine onto the pink duvet and crosses her arms. “I have nothing to say to you, Roxanne.”

The use of my full name—the same name she used to excitedly sing out whenever she saw me—feels like a cheese grater going down my skin.

My eyes start to burn hot as I stare down at her lips frowning at me, and my throat clogs as I fight against the pressure of tears pushing against the dam I had so carefully constructed on my way up here.

You’re not going to cry, dammit.

I step further into her bedroom, the furry white rug quieting my boots. “Well, I have plenty to say to you.”

Riley’s lips, always painted in a shade of deep red, thin, and I immediately know she wants me to get out of here.

I don’t care.

“Seriously, Roxanne. Whatever you’re here for, I’m not in the mood to talk about it.”

Feeling brave again, I move to sit on the far edge of her bed. “Remember how we used to lay right here for hours, watching MTV and flipping through all of your stacks of cassettes? Or that time we snuck those wine coolers from your parents’ basement and stayed up all night doing the quizzes from your mom’s magazines?”

Riley looks away from me, her jaw tensing.

“We were friends once,” I press on. “Close friends. Don’t you think I deserve some explanation for why...” My voice dwindles to a whisper. “For why you would do something so cruel to me?”

My body bounces slightly when Riley scoots backward, the many frilled pillows crowding around her as she reclines against the headboard.

“You really don’t get it?” She tilts her head back, red hair fanning around her as she looks at me from down her nose. “Of course you were too wrapped up in Harley to notice when things changed between us.”

I shake my head. “Changed how?”

Riley’s smile widens ever so slightly as she holds my gaze. “I was in love with you, Roxanne.”

The word ‘love’ knocks every single atom of air out of my lungs.

An embarrassing, strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper dries up my throat as I reel back, my head smacking against the solid bedpost.

Riley was in love with ME?

Everything around vanishes in a blink. My entire universe has imploded in on itself as I stare at her, struggling to see everything that I had been missing.

Holy. Shit. Bombs. Hell. Fire. Anarchy.

“What?” I stand up, my head shaking. “You... had feelings for me?”

It doesn’t make any sense, but as I stare at her, searching her face for any hint of a lie or a joke, I can tell she’s laying it all bare in the way she doesn’t move a single muscle.

It’s the fucking truth.

Riley was in love with me . How is that possible?

“Oh, come on now, Roxy. Did you honestly think I was into the guys I dated?” She crosses her ankles and folds her hands in her lap. “I was using them. Keeping up appearances, you know? I’ve always been into chicks.”

The blunt admission hits me squarely between the eyes. I…

What? My ex-friend is into women? How could I have not seen this huge part of who she really is?

“You mean you sleeping with Harley was what, you using him somehow?”

Her smile quickly fades, and she turns her tiny pointed nose up at me like I’m the one not making sense. “Harley was never a real relationship and you know it,” she snaps. “He was a placeholder. Someone to bring to formal events and parties. Someone to make out with in the hall. That’s it. I never really cared about him.”

So what, like a beard? Tyler had explained that to me once—how some guys will date girls for appearances to hide their sexuality. Do girls do the same thing in reverse?

“Why him of all people?” I persist. “You could have chosen literally anyone else in this town. Why did you have to specifically target my boyfriend?”

Her eyes flare and she leans forward, bracing her hands on her knees. “Because from day one, it was never about Harley,” she states with low, heated conviction. “That idiot was nothing but a way to get close to you, to insert myself into your life by any means necessary.”

My head is spinning so violently, I might hurl all over her bedspread.

“I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I was obsessed with you the second Eden dragged you into my world and you walked into Jada’s garage. But you never saw me, not really. You were always focused on the band, your music, your boyfriend, or work. I had to take some of that away from you. I had to make you see that I was the only one who mattered. I wanted to make you jealous, take all your attention, even if it was anger at first.”

The nausea builds.

“Which is why I made Harley my boyfriend so I could get him away from you. Then you showed up at that party, and I kept going with it because at least I was awakening that beast I know is inside you and had it directed straight at me. And it worked…” she trails off, another shitty grin on her face as she sits back and examines her fingernails. “It worked. It worked really well.”

I breathe hard. What the hell is she talking about?

“And Harley went along with it?” I whisper, horrified. “Making out with you, letting you grope him, while lying to me the whole time?”

“Easy.” She looks at me. “He’s too easy.”

I have to sit back down on the edge of the bed, my knees too weak to support me.

“Okay, so you never actually liked guys?” I manage weakly, trying to work through it out loud as I stare at a picture of Winona Ryder on the cover of her magazine. “Not Harley, not any of those other guys?”

“That’s right,” Riley confirms with a quick hair flip. “Harley was definitely the most clueless one of the bunch though.”

“And did he know about what you were doing?”

She sighs, continuing flatly, “That boy let me play him like a little puppet. All because of the short skirts I’d wear and a few batted eyelashes.” She sounds proud as she pulls a pillow into her lap and holds it.

“Once I started paying him the tiniest bit of attention when he came over here, he did whatever I wanted. Which included kissing me whenever I gave the signal, letting me touch him whenever I wanted. I think he was too caught up in the danger and excitement,” she laughs, hugging the pillow tighter. “He didn’t see the bigger picture or consider the emotional damage it could cause you. Harley’s one lost boy.”

I look up from the magazine, feeling sick from the way she quirks her eyebrow, at her smile as she leans her chin on top of the pillow. How can she be so blasé and bragging about playing with people’s feelings?

“You’re saying Harley is some sad sack who got played?” I ask, and her smile remains imperial, unbothered. “And you don’t feel the tiniest bit disgusted with yourself?” I demand. “You played him and hurt me in the worst possible way while I thought we were friends? How can you sit there looking so proud of that?”

Riley doesn’t acknowledge my question. Instead, her eyes are on her nails as she says, “I wanted to get him out of the picture. It took me forever to get him to dump you, but once I threatened to tell you myself he started to move fast. I’m surprised you never suspected something.”

That must have been why he looked so panicked the night of the burger shack.

Her chest falls in a sigh as she sets the pillow off to the side, clasping her hands back into her lap and giving a little shrug. “Whatever, I’m over it. And over you.”

The same burning feeling is all over my body as the night my mom slapped me. I search Riley’s face, looking for the girl who used to be my friend—the girl I trusted. Or thought I could . Her eyes, though, are stone cold. Has she been putting on an act this whole time? Only being nice to me because she wanted something from me?

I knew that Riley had a habit of being a mean girl, but I thought that was all rumors since she’d been nothing but nice to me. I guess being under the attention of one of the cool girls in school is a drug—something that makes you feel good that you ignore everything bad everyone says about it.

These must have been her true colors.

“Then why kick me out of the band?” I spit out, my voice catching on the anger rapidly expanding inside me. If she ‘loved’ me, wouldn’t she want to keep me?

“Oh my god.” Riley leans forward and pulls her legs underneath her to sit up. “I kicked you out of the band to make you chase after me. That was the point.” She waits for my eyebrows to scrunch together in a good scowl, then flops onto her back amongst the pillows. “I had to take away the things you were obsessed with to make you be focused only on me and winning back my attention. I needed to create some drama to accomplish that. And you never really showed any emotion around me until I did that. Then, when you found out I was with Harley, you finally acted like you cared.”

My face twisted up. “What the f—you seriously planned all of this?”

She fucking laughs. “All those troubles, yes.”

Everything becomes explosively clear. This deranged, obsessive bitch violated me in the most insidious, devastating way imaginable. Not only my sense of self and my relationship, but my entire life—the career I’ve worked toward, my support system, my chosen family of fellow weird kids trying to make music and survive high school.

She broke all of it because she wanted to.

The rage begins pulsing through my veins, burning like lava flowing from an erupting volcano, melting away every other rational thought until I’m consumed by it. How dare she?

How fucking dare she?

My friend reduced our bond to a deeply disturbing game of mental torture. She trampled over me, Harley, our histories and humanities without a second thought, consumed by her want for my undivided attention and loyalty. She is sick.

My legs spring me off the bed and I start to walk heavily along the footboard, pacing toward the window before turning around, taking several steps toward the door and then back to the end of the bed.

My lips part but no sound comes out. I’m torn between slapping her and...

Riley blinks up at me as I lean my hand on the bedpost, arms stiff and my shoulders hunched up.

“Incase you’re still lost, yes I kicked you out to get your attention,” she confirms, lips pursed as if recounting a mildly interesting documentary she watched over breakfast. “I flirted with you to get your attention, and I even slept with your boyfriend to get your attention.” She gives a shrug, looking so fucking amused more than anything. “And it worked perfectly. I had you completely wrapped around my finger.”

This is unbelievable. My hands are shaking as I push away from the bedpost and resume my pacing. “Oh it definitely provoked a reaction, but not because I loved you.” I’m yelling now, glaring down at her as she looks up at me. “I despise you, Riley.”

She at least has the self-awareness to look taken aback that her stupid plan didn’t work the way she wanted. Does she know what love is? Does she really, truly believe that’s how you earn someone’s attention?

Yeah, she got my attention alright, but not in the way she wanted.

“You know none of this is okay, right?” I shake my head so sharply that a few strands of hair break free from my ponytail. “That isn’t how you treat people you care about, or how you win them. Why didn’t you talk to me directly?”

Riley breathes a heavy sigh, her eyes cutting over to the window. “Yeah, well, I’m not about to apologize. It’s done, finito. Don’t have a cow about it now.”

Liquid heat races under my skin.

“You could at least pretend to be sorry! Do you not understand what I’ve been dealing with because of that shit you started? The damage you did to me?”

I’m hyperventilating, feeling detached from reality. I’m terrified of her in a lot of ways. She has no remorse, no capacity for understanding how profoundly she messed with my psyche because she simply does not process the world in those terms.

This girl is a black hole.

I pause, waiting to see if she’ll listen to what I’m saying and apologize. She says nothing.

I say more calmly, though my voice is still tight, “You’re so fucking heartless.”

“I’m just speaking my truth. I am who I am, not going to apologize for it.” That tone of hers is flat and sarcastic, and I snap my jaw shut, sucking on my top teeth as she refuses to see how wrong it is once again.

“I thought I was going to come here, and you were going to be like ‘oh my gosh I’m so sorry’ and have this insanely good reasoning for doing all of this, because I thought you were my friend. I thought you—I thought—” I take a massive breath in through my nose. “Never fucking mind.”

I start heading for the door on shaky legs before I rip her bedpost off and spear it through her window.

“This has been enlightening.” I scoff. “Thanks for that.”

“Wait,” Riley calls out, the usual bored affectation cracking as something that sounds like genuine distress seeps into her voice for the first time since the door shut behind me.

I don’t give a shit. She can rot.

“C’mon Roxy, you know I was just messing with you. Yeah, some parts were true, but...”

I pause with my back still to her, digging my palm into the glass knob on her door. I want nothing more than to storm out and never look back, but I give in to my curiosity and turn around.

“Okay,” I say slowly, hating myself for not being able to tell her to fuck off. “If this game was all a lie, then what parts of it were true?”

I’m unsure if I have the strength left to find out. My heart seems to have been hit by a truck and I have to hold onto the door for support.

Riley pushes herself off the bed, rounding the footboard and leaning against the wooden post. A deep frown indents my face as she bites her lip.

“I did sleep with Harley and I did kick you out of the band.” She shifts her weight, digging her toe into the furry rug. “And maybe I can be a little selfish sometimes.”

I bark out a quick, bitter laugh at that. Selfish doesn’t begin to cover her.

She winces at my outburst before continuing. “But I want you to know I’m not a total bitch.”

That did not at all help her case. I’m already seeing red when she is being a “ half bitch .”

“So, you admit you knew perfectly well how much damage you were inflicting, but you still don’t seem to actually feel sorry about any of it.”

“Maybe a bit.” Rather than being apologetic, her nostrils flare, her lip curling up as she tells me, “And that’s why I’m letting you know I quit Iron Fillings.”

I narrow my eyes. How is that any sort of an apology?

“You—” I laugh at how ridiculous this conversation is getting. “Because what, you feel guilty?”

“No, of course not. I don’t regret it at all.” She scoffs with an easy laugh, adding, “I’d do it all over again. Except for one part.” Her smile drops from her face as she twists around to look out the window behind her. “Kicking you out of the band. I feel kinda bad about that, but I couldn’t let you think that. I had to be mean as hell, otherwise, I would’ve ruined the whole point.”

Oh, wow . How fucking kind.

I stare at her, my eyes rounding. She doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse for sabotaging my relationship and inflicting emotional agony? Ha . That’s chump shit I guess, because no, she regrets booting me from the band.

The one part I was thankful for now, or else I wouldn’t have had Noah.

Things happen for a reason, don’t they.

My brain is still spinning. It doesn’t make sense. Why only feel sorry for that?

“This is because now I have Noah Jackson, isn’t it?” I accuse. “You couldn’t care less how you hurt me. You’re jealous that your plan to keep me tangled up with you failed and I started another band. I'm right, aren't I?”

Riley’s head snaps toward me. “What? Don’t flatter yourself. I could play games with him too if I wanted.”

The threat doesn’t hold against the blush staining her freckled cheeks. I’ve hit the nail on the head. Her selfish possessiveness knows no bounds, and now she’s furious that I’ve finally slipped from her grasp.

And Riley seems to sense she’s losing me.

“Can’t we move past this? I kicked myself out of the band for you, now they don’t have a chance at winning. Doesn’t that prove I’m really sorry? That I care? That we’re even now?”

Hell no, it doesn’t. I straighten, shoulders hardening along with my heart.

“Boo-hoo, cry me a river. You’re incapable of caring about anyone but yourself, Riley.”

Riley opens her mouth again, but I can’t be stopped now. What was it Eden said?

I grip the doorknob, setting my stance as I raise my chin, my voice scathing in its confidence. “Go fuck a cactus.”

Ignoring her gasp, I fly out of her bedroom, shutting the door behind me. The click of the latch falling into place resonates with the beautiful finality of accepting losses and gaining everything.

I don’t look back once.

I can breathe freely again. Fuck, does the air out here taste sweet.

I drove straight to the storage garage. While I didn’t condone Riley’s actions, getting closure helped lift that fucking weight off my shoulders that had been sitting there for months like one of those cartoon devils.

Now she’s finally gone.

I guess her bailing on Iron Fillings does give us a better shot at winning Battle of the Bands, but she is delusional if she thinks those metalheads won’t replace their singer. The battle isn’t for four more months, which is plenty of time for them to find some other chick to scream into the mic.

Not knowing who we’d be facing makes me nervous. I prefer to know the competition instead of being blindsided the night of the show by some monster vocalist who’d eat me alive, much like Riley tried to eat my soul.

Like some kind of fucking 14-year-old virgin wanting to be sure everything is perfect, my stomach twists knowing I’ll be seeing Noah again as I pull into the parking lot of the storage garage.

I hate that he’s turned me into this kind of person, the kind wanting to check my makeup and make sure my hair is perfect. It pisses me off how good he’d been with me the night of the concert, how he hadn’t followed it up with something douchey like, “Don’t go falling in love with me now.”

Nope, he stayed right there, staring at me with that look on his face. All the other times I’d done anything, it was always with no words spoken, only me for the taking.

This was totally different. Noah is a man . A man who makes me feel like a desirable woman. It gives me hope, and I hate him for that.

I love him even more for it.

Maybe with him holding my hand, I’ll finally stop feeling so alone.

On the other hand, this evening, when I hop back into my car and walk up to my front door in anticipation of another necessary conversation, I tap out my SOS signal on my thigh. It’s not working well to ease the tension tightening in my body as I step onto my porch.

That tension causes my fingers to clutch tighter around the donut bag in my hand that I stopped for. I needed comfort food after this messy day.

After waiting with Daniel in the garage for over an hour, finally giving in and letting him play me the entire Straight Outta Compton album, listening to him go on about how awesome California is and how messed up what Riley did was, I didn’t feel better.

I had sat at my drum kit, forcing myself to be calm and listen to Daniel play along with his bass to his hip-hop, waiting for that motorbike to pull up so I could see Noah and tell him everything that happened, to make sure we were still good after our awkward goodbye from the concert.

To my total frustration, Noah never showed.

It was the only thing I could think about as Daniel explained that he didn’t know where he was, and as we tried to have a practice without the singer anyways.

My eyes stared bullets at the abandoned mic stand as the minutes ticked on with no sudden appearance of Noah in the garage way, his curtain curls bouncing against the side of his face as he panted, “Sorry I’m late, sunshine.”

That never happened.

Why hadn’t he shown up? It wasn’t like him to not show without explanation.

A million worst-case scenarios played out in my head:

1. He regretted what happened between us.

2. He was freaked out by how intense things got.

3. Riley had gotten to him and filled his head with lies and twisted games.

I thought about the night I first kissed Noah, too, and the look on Riley’s face when she saw us together at the Halloween party—the look of jealousy, regret, and rage that I now saw. Would she make sure he couldn’t either if she couldn't have me?

My fingers shake as I open the front door. I’m pissing myself off again.

Planning not to work myself into a bad case of anxiety, I vow to blow through the kitchen, gearing it straight for my bedroom to shove the donuts in my mouth while I convince myself to pick up the phone and call him.

I really wish he was here right now, with his long, warm arms holding me close to his chest. His hands would play with my hair, massaging my scalp, fingers moving through the strands as he squeezed me tight.

I just want to know where he is. That’s all. I want to see his face, and when I do, I want to be able to look into his eyes and know that he’s okay.

An hour. I’ll give him an hour to call or appear outside my window before I completely melt down.

Jasmine’s muffled barks echo inside the house, the shuffling scritch of her paws on the hardwood telling me to hurry up and come inside. My lungs exhale a breath that relaxes my shoulders as I open the door, Jasmine bolting up to my legs as she always does.

The living room is silent and dark, no blaring TV or my passed out mom draped on the couch. It doesn’t look like she’s been here at all since I’ve left. There’s no clutter of food wrappers on the coffee table, no bottles lined up along the edges.

Now that I think about it, her car still isn’t outside. Weird.

My footsteps seem too loud as I move down the hall, slipping my boots off and poking my head into her bedroom, going as far as checking the piles of clothes on the floor and the mess of a bathroom. She isn’t there either.

I don’t know why, but the quiet orderliness stirs my anxiety more than the usual mess would.

Unease wrapping around my skin, I hurry to my room, reaching out to stick my key in the lock only to stop short in the doorway to see it is already cracked open.

Cold, spectral hands wrap around my throat, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

I didn’t fucking lock it before I left. Worse, I didn’t come back home like I thought I would—went straight to the garage after Riley’s. Now Jasmine has probably chewed through half of my books or found my pizza box under the bed that I promised myself I’d take out today.

The sound of her nails clicking on the floor starts to come down the hallway. At least if someone is inside my room, I have an attack dog.

With a deep breath, I nudge the door open with the tips of my fingers. “Jazzy, did you...” I can’t finish the question as I take in the sight, the donuts slipping from my numb fingers.

Everything is trashed.

My vanity is crooked, drawers ripped out violently and spewing makeup and pencils across the floor. My mattress is tipped sideways, leaning up against the bookshelf that had toppled too, paperbacks splayed open with broken spines. The clothes inside of my closet are dumped onto a pile on the carpet, shoes and jackets I saved up so long for now trampled, and boxes I store up at the top of the closet tossed to the ground.

What the hell?

No. No, everything I had—

My knees give out and I scramble desperately to the vent behind my bed frame, the one loose piece of metal I pry open late at night when it gets really quiet. When I can rifle through my dad’s old cigar box unseen, running my fingers over the photos of us, over the dollar bills I’ve earned and hide away inside the jar next to it.

Please be there, please, please.

On my knees, I stick half of my body underneath the bed frame and pull the vent off, shoving my hand in there, smacking my palm around and waiting for the feel of the glass jar and box. Sobs tear from my throat when I reach the back of the vent and find nothing but dust and a dead grasshopper.

My safe place and my last shred of fucking security. Whoever came in here had taken the box with my parent’s wedding photo, and all of the cash I’ve saved from working my ass off.

$740 gone. Fucking gone.

“Fuck!” I growl, the tears in my eyes threatening to fucking stream once I hit my head on the bed frame as I crawl out from under it. I rub at the pain spiderwebbing across my scalp, ignoring the rug burn on my knees and stumble to my closet.

Shoving aside the clothes thrown onto the floor, I pull up the loose floorboard hidden in the back corner with my nail.

I hiss when the nail breaks off, sticking my finger in my mouth to soothe the ache.

Please, fucking please let it still be there.

My hands shake, breath coming in panicked gulps as I sweep away dust bunnies to reveal the small envelope I had tucked away. My dad once told me that if you ever hide something to never hide it all in one spot. Just in case.

I breath a sigh of fucking relief when I see the bills sticking out of it. Five twenties that now represent a sad fraction of what I’ve saved over the past year. Extra shifts, selling old jewelry, playing the drums until my muscles got tired and palms bled.

All that effort, gone.

“Damn it!” I slam my fist into the wall, fresh tears falling over my lashes. This will cut me back so much.

Why hadn’t I added to this backup stash instead of getting lazy? $100 is nothing. It sets me back at least two years, losing almost everything I have worked for. It’s impossible to save a chunk that big when you’re stuck making minimum wage and only working 16 hours a week, while simultaneously having to use the money to live day to day.

Any chance of escaping this life—gone. All because I thought moving a vent was easier than moving my shoes and boxes around. And now I’ll be under the same roof with my mother while she continues to suck everything good out of me until I’m wrinkled and dry.

Way to fucking go, Roxy. Fuck. I don't know what to do.

How do you grieve something that isn’t entirely gone yet, but was never fully present to begin with? When that fantasy of building yourself up from the dust and coming out on top is like chasing a carrot on a stick that keeps getting pulled away? When every last ounce of you that believed in that storybook promise has been destroyed, looted, and defiled?

My shoulders start to crumple inward, thumbing through the useless bills as my lungs shake with a sob. The violation of someone coming into my space hurts more than the theft.

This is where I can hide, where I leave all my anger at the front door, dancing alone with the tape player blaring. Where I curl up under the covers with my worn copy of The Bell Jar on bad nights when my mom’s drunk groaning gets worse, turning to someone else’s pain.

My room, my rules. The one place I have control.

It’s fucking desecrated like a crime scene. My head falls back and I turn up to the ceiling, wondering how someone was able to find it and why they had trashed my room but nothing else in the house.

It had to be my mom. It’s the only place she’s never allowed inside.

She had to have come home, checked to see if it was her lucky day to have my door unlocked, and started her treasure hunt.

Thank god my drum kit is safely locked away in the storage unit.

I scan the rest of my room, and my eyes land on my record shelf next to my doorway. The one that holds my most treasured possessions—my dad’s old records and tapes collected from when he was younger.

I used to lay on my bedroom floor and study every single cover, his little wishbone in white marker in the corner, the sleeves on the insides with all of the photos, imagining him as a teen blasting Zeppelin in his room and hiding his records inside of a Marty Robbins vinyl so his mom wouldn’t get pissed. I have a stack of Maxell cassettes I filled, one by one, with his vinyl collection and my own radio recordings. Those tapes are the little musical bond between the dad I didn’t have enough time to know and his daughter who found safety in drums and angsty lyrics.

And now, they are gone.

A scream tears from my lungs as I collapse forward, clawing at the carpet until my nails scream. It’s all ripped away. They never existed, he never existed.

The cold fingers of grief squeeze my heart as I gasp for air, digging my nose into the carpet.

This is so much more than stolen money and damaged objects, they kidnapped memories. I curl in on myself, falling sideways and hugging my knees tight to my chest, struggling to breathe through the thick sobs inside my nose and throat as my nails scrape down my shin.

My eyes sting from the mascara running down in tracks across my face as I stare at the wreckage of my room. I have nothing left. Everything that matters, what kept me going through my mom’s bullshit and when life got unbearable, is all fucking gone.

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. Why does everything I love get taken away from me?

I twist my head to press my forehead to the floor and scream until my lungs burn. Until the tendons in my throat strain, until the cry feels like knives cutting up my vocal cords.

I scream because it is the only way I can still feel alive.

Someone had broken in, ransacked my room and stolen from me. Whoever it is, maybe they’ll come back for me with a well-placed bullet between the eyes.

Fingers digging into the floor, I crawl around the bed for the phone cord and yank it down to the ground, fumbling to type in Noah’s phone number by muscle memory. Hearing his voice, seeing his eyes and smile…

I need that now more than ever.