Chapter 6 The Art of Self-Sabotage
The Art of Self-Sabotage
I yanked the zipper down so hard it caught.
The black dress hit my bedroom floor, pooling around my ankles, the fourth one I'd tried in twenty minutes.
Matt's match started in ten minutes, and I was still standing in my underwear, staring at my reflection like it might suddenly transform into someone worth showing up for.
"Brooke," Davina snapped through the FaceTime call, her face taking up the entire screen. "What are you doing?"
I shook my head, digging through my comfy clothes drawer. "I'm not going."
"I'm sorry, what?" Davina leaned closer to her camera. I was just out of camera view. "Did you just say you're not going to see the human equivalent of a Greek God who specifically asked you to watch him be hot and sweaty in public?"
"Davina…"
"No, seriously. I need clarification because I think I'm having an aneurysm.
" She pressed her hand to her forehead dramatically.
"A professional athlete, who looks like he was carved by angels and hand delivered to earth by the Gods themselves, invited you to watch him work.
And you're… What? Reorganizing your sock drawer instead? "
I winced. "It's not that simple."
"Oh, it's incredibly simple. You put on pants, optional, honestly, and show up." She squinted at me through the screen. "Wait. Are you wearing the dress?"
"I was…"
"The black one? The one that makes your boobs look like they have their own Instagram following?"
"Davina!"
"What? I'm being supportive! Your boobs are fantastic. They deserve recognition." She paused, studying my face. "You took it off, didn't you?" I stepped back into view. "You're in your sad pajamas."
I looked down at my oversized t-shirt. "They're not sad pajamas."
"Brooke, honey, that shirt has seen more tears than a Nicholas Sparks movie. It's definitely sad pajamas." Her voice softened slightly. "What's really going on?"
I glanced at my laptop, still open on my dresser, Matt's Instagram profile glowing accusingly in the dim light. "I may have done some research."
"Research." Her voice went flat. "You social media stalked him."
"It wasn't stalking…"
"Brooke."
"Fine. I stalked him." The words tumbled out in a rush.
"And?"
"And he has a type. Blonde, tall, skinny, basically the opposite of me in every possible way."
Davina was quiet for a moment: "Okay, first of all, Instagram is not a dating résumé. Second, did you miss the part where he went to several different cafés looking for you? Or the part where he kissed you? Because last I checked, people don't usually kiss people they're not attracted to."
"Maybe he was just being nice…"
"Brooklyn Marie Wallace." She used my full name like my mother did when I was in trouble. "Nobody kisses someone to be nice. This isn't a charity drive. He's not collecting donations for the Kiss-an-Insecure-Girl Foundation."
Despite myself, I snorted. "That's horrible."
"But it made you laugh, which proves my point. You're funny, you're smart, you're gorgeous, and you have excellent taste in best friends." She grinned. "He likes you. Go out, have fun. Fuck a hot wrestler!"
I flinched at her bluntness.
"If it turns into more, great. If not? You have an awesome story."
If only my brain worked like hers. So simple. So… fearless.
"It's not that easy," I murmured.
"Don't let Chris win. Don't let him make you think you are not worthy of love or that you don't deserve a beautiful man like Matiao Strickland, because you do, but you're never going to find love if you hide in your apartment. Plus, that dick never deserved you. You were always too good for him."
He sure didn't believe that.
It was hard to believe in happily ever after, especially with a pro wrestler when you're constantly reminded that you are not good enough.
"Just go. Have a good time. What is the worst that could happen?"
Oh, um, I don't know. I could be humiliated by rejection again because, even if he didn’t reject me, his friends, his fans, and his groupies would never look at me and see someone who deserved to be with someone like him. "I don't think I'm ready for this."
"Ready for what? A new friend? A good fuck? A good time?" I shrugged. "You guys agreed to be just friends."
"When he kissed me…" I paused, searching for the right words, but couldn't find them.
"I don't know." I shook my head. Even saying the words in my head sounded stupid.
I felt something pass between us… A spark.
Chemistry. I couldn't tell, but I knew I'd never felt that before, and I didn't want to fall for someone I could never have.
Sucking in a deep breath, I exhaled slowly. The worst part about all of this was that I was never this girl, but now I was so self-conscious of my weight. The first time Chris asked me out, I didn't hesitate to say yes, but that was then, and this was now.
My gaze dropped to the dress lying on the floor.
Chris's voice echoed in my head: Dresses like that aren't made for your body type.
I shook my head, pushing the memory away, but the doubt lingered like a bad aftertaste.
I'd let all of his harsh words define me, and I hated that, but building back confidence didn't happen overnight.
"Davina, I love you, but I'm just not ready for this. I think I'm going to watch a movie and eat ice cream."
"Okay, if that's really what you want." She forced a smile. "Call me tomorrow."
"Text me when you get home, and have fun tonight." She had a date tonight. "I want to hear all about it tomorrow."
I ended the call with a sigh.
I padded to the kitchen, and there was Karen, sitting primly by her empty food bowl, tail twitching with barely contained indignation.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered, grabbing the ice cream from the freezer. "You literally ate an hour ago."
She meowed, a long, dramatic sound that somehow managed to convey both accusation and betrayal.
"Oh, so now you're judging my life choices too?" I waved my spoon at her. "At least I'm not the one who got stuck in a paper bag yesterday and needed a rescue mission."
Karen blinked slowly, then sat down and began grooming her paw with exaggerated dignity.
"Really? You're going to pretend that didn't happen?" I shoved a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. "I have photographic evidence, ma'am."
She paused mid-lick and fixed me with those green eyes that somehow always made me feel like I was the pet in this relationship.
"Fine, you want to know why I'm eating ice cream in my pajamas instead of getting dressed up for a gorgeous man?
" I gestured with my spoon. "Because I have the confidence of a deflated balloon, and you," I pointed at her, "have more game than I do.
Remember when you charmed Mrs. Peterson into giving you treats every morning? That's some next-level flirting."
Karen chirped, a sound I'd learned meant either yes, I'm fabulous, or feed me now, human.
"Don't get cocky," I warned. "You also spent twenty minutes yesterday trying to catch your tail."
She stood, stretched with theatrical flair, and sauntered over to brush against my legs, her version of a consolation hug.
"Thanks, buddy." I reached down to scratch behind her ears. "At least one of us knows how to handle insecurities. You just knock things off tables and move on."
Karen purred, then promptly knocked my phone off the coffee table.
"Point taken." I curled up on the couch, spoon in one hand, remote in the other. Mindlessly, I flipped through the channels. Rom-com? No. Nature documentary? Pass. My thumb hovered over Wrestling Live. Matt would be on soon. I shouldn't. I held my breath. Click. The ring exploded onto my screen.
I wasn't a wrestling fan. I wasn't really into sports at all, but I didn't need to like wrestling to admire him doing what he obviously loved.
As Matt entered the ring, I found myself leaning closer to the screen.
His dark hair, usually pulled back, now fell in loose waves around his face.
Lights glistened off his skin, highlighting the determined set of his jaw.
He moved with a fluid grace, each motion precise and controlled.
When he grappled with his opponent, I could see the tension in his forearms, the focus in his eyes.
It wasn't just raw power. There was strategy in every shift of his weight, every twist of his body.
As I watched Matt in the ring, memories of our kiss flooded back. My hand unconsciously rose to my lips, remembering the soft pressure, his gentle but firm touch. A mix of excitement and nervousness swirled in my stomach as I bit down on my bottom lip.
When the camera caught Matt's face after his victory, something twisted in my chest. Not regret exactly, but a hollow ache for the parallel universe where I'd chosen differently.
I pulled the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders. The apartment felt too quiet after the roar of the crowd on TV. Even Karen seemed to sense my gloom, padding over to settle against my side with a rumbling purr.
"You could still text him," I whispered to the empty room. "Congratulate him. Explain why you didn't show."
But my phone stayed on the coffee table, screen dark. Instead, I let my eyes drift closed, imagining a different ending to this night, one where courage won over fear, where I was sitting in those bright arena lights instead of hiding in my dim living room.
Sleep took me slowly, my last conscious thought a half-formed wish that dreams might be kinder than reality.