Chapter 25
Ingrid
My phone won’t stop buzzing.
I should mute it, throw it across the room, let the battery bleed out until it’s just a dead weight. Instead, I keep it face down on the table, every vibration rattling through me like a reminder that I’m the coward here.
When I finally give in and look, it’s the same thing over and over.
Can we talk?
I need you to hear me out.
I’m sorry. Please call me.
I don’t care if you’re pissed, Angel, I just need to hear your voice.
Each one should make me feel powerful. Breakups are supposed to be my fuel. Heartache to chorus, betrayal to bridge. But instead of fire, all I feel is water pressing down on me. A slow, suffocating weight.
“Ingrid.” Madison snaps her fingers in front of my face, dragging me back to the real world. “You’re not even listening.”
“I am,” I lie. My voice sounds flat, even to me.
She narrows her eyes, arms crossed like she’s dealing with a stubborn teenager instead of her boss-slash-best-friend. “Okay, then repeat back what I just said.”
I can’t. The only words in my head are Jefferson’s. “Yes, there’s a list–”
Madison sighs and pushes her laptop toward me, screen glowing with a color-coded spreadsheet.
“Okay, listen. You need focus. Distraction. Forward motion.” She taps one column with her nails, each click sharp as a metronome.
“Studio sessions–we’ve got producers in L.A.
begging to book you the second you’re back.
I said we’d keep it flexible, but if you want, I can lock in dates. ”
She scrolls. “The film adaptation is heating up again–remember that director who passed the first time? He’s circling back. Wants to meet. Says he’s finally got the financing lined up.”
My eyes skim the list, but the words don’t stick.
“Merch collab,” she keeps going, relentlessly.
“The fashion house wants to design a capsule with your name on it. Think edgy, European, runway crossover vibes. And,” her voice lifts, like this is the clincher, “a publisher reached out about a book deal. Not a coffee table photo spread, a real memoir. People want the story behind the songs, Ingrid. Your story. That’s legacy stuff. ”
I force a nod, though it all lands like noise. A hundred opportunities I should care about, should grab with both hands. Instead, I feel like I’m watching her from underwater–Madison’s mouth moving, her eyes sharp, her voice cutting through, but all of it muffled, distorted.
She notices. She always notices. “I’m handing you the world here, and you’re giving me nothing.”
“I just got off an eighteen-month successful tour, Madison. What else do you want me to give?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, clipped and fraying at the edges. “Fuck. That came out harsh.”
Madison blinks, then quietly shuts the laptop. The click feels final. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re exhausted. I’ll tell everyone you’ll get back to them when you’re ready.”
I sink back into the cushion and stare at my nails. “No,” I murmur after a beat. “I’m sorry. This isn’t about work.”
Work is my thing. It’s where I thrive, where I prove myself, but it’s also where I hide. Madison knows that as well as I do.
“Still stressed about him?” she asks carefully.
The question lands like a stone in my chest. “I’m more wondering why I always pick the worst guys. Like… how can I walk into a room, scan a hundred men, and go, ‘yeah, that’s the one. Give me the most toxic option available.’”
Madison lets out a brittle laugh. “I guess you have a type.”
We both know it’s not funny.
“I thought he was different.” My throat tightens as the words slip out, softer, almost to myself.
He was different–at least he seemed that way.
Maybe because he never looked at me like a prize he’d already won, but like a fight he wanted to keep showing up for.
Because he listened. Because he made me laugh. He made me feel so good.
Madison shifts beside me. “I shouldn’t have told you about the list.”
I lift my eyes to her, sharp. “Don’t blame yourself.”
But even as I say it, something prickles at the back of my mind. Madison had made a choice to tell me and only after I’d fallen hard. If she’d told me that night in Chicago, I could have kept walking. Why did she wait until I gave my heart to him? My body?
I shove the thought down before it can grow teeth. I’m too raw to pick apart motives, too tired to chase shadows. I’m the one that made the decision to pursue him and I’m the one that has to take the blame.
The boutique is located in Wynwood, tucked in a small, unassuming storefront.
I’d been told about Bridgette’s designs by my makeup artist and when she showed me her work, I’d been mesmerized.
In person it’s the kind of place where everything is curated down to the background playlist. Racks of gowns in muted jewel tones line the walls, while Bridgette keeps flitting around me with pins clenched between her teeth.
Madison had argued that I should have the dresses brought to the house with the excuse that it’s easier and safer, more “controlled.” But that’s one thing Jefferson taught me. I don’t have to hide all the time. I can go out, and I can live. If people see me, they see me.
It’s not like I’m braving the streets alone.
Marv positions himself out front, standing at the front door, even though it’s locked for a private fitting.
The material clings against my skin as I step into a deep emerald slip dress, bias cut so it skims along my waist and pools at my feet.
The seamstress tugs the straps just so, then retreats, muttering something about the hem.
I tilt toward the mirror, fingers grazing the fabric, imagining the ball lights scattering over me.
The next image is one of Jefferson’s hands, steady and sure, at my hips.
My chest tightens and I push the thought away.
My phone buzzes on the velvet chair. I suspect it’s him and almost ignore it, but I step off the platform and check. It’s Shelby.
I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear as I balance on one heel while the seamstress adjusts the other. I skip the pleasantries. “If you’re trying to get me to take him back, don’t.”
“I’m not,” Shelby says quickly. “I just wanted to check on you and see how you’re doing.”
It’s weird, normally a call like this would get my hackles up.
What kind of gossip are they looking for?
Who is this benefitting? But the friendships I’ve made with these college girls are different.
Shelby is so easy and genuine, which is only confirmed when she adds, “I also wanted to say I’m sorry for any part I had in this.
And for what it’s worth–I had no idea you two would start dating for real. Or fall in love.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Falling in love is a bit of a stretch.”
“Okay, sure,” she concedes. “Let’s call it deep like. Either way, I hate that it’s come to this.”
I glance at my reflection, the green silk hugging me fluffy and soft, when all I feel underneath is raw. Against my better judgment, I ask, “How is he?”
There’s a pause before she says it. “A complete mess.”
The seamstress steps back to study her work, head cocked, pins glinting between her fingers. My gaze stays fixed on my own eyes in the mirror as I whisper, “Good.”’
Shelby exhales softly on the other end of the line. “Look, whatever’s going on with Jefferson, I just want you to know I’m still here. For you. Even though it’s new, I value our friendship, and I don’t want you to doubt that.”
There’s a pause, before she adds, quieter, “But here’s the thing.
You’re mad about finding out the truth about what Jefferson said before he met you.
I get it. But I’m hurt too, Ingrid. The way we met–it wasn’t honest either.
You’d already met him when you walked into the Badger Den that first night.
You recognized the names on the back of our jerseys.
You’d already eaten a Jefferson Parks Special.
And I was the idiot who thought I was introducing you to someone new. ”
Her words settle heavy in my chest, an ache layered on top of the one already there. She’s not wrong. I hadn’t lied, not exactly, but I hadn’t told the truth either.
“Shelby…” I start, then stop, because what am I supposed to say? That my whole world has been smoke and mirrors for so long I didn’t even realize I was doing it? “You’re right. I apologize.”
“I don’t blame you,” she continues quickly, like she doesn’t want me to spiral. “I just don’t want either of us to pretend things were perfect from the start. It wasn’t. But I still want to be your friend. That hasn’t changed.”
My throat tightens. For all the chaos between us, that lands. “I’m grateful for you, too, Shelby. For Nadia and Twyler, who are really great.”
“They are great, aren’t they?”
I laugh. “How have things been for you?”
She brightens a little, launching into it.
“Busy. We’ve had graduations, and I’ve been meeting everyone’s families.
Parents, siblings. It’s been good. But also kind of sad.
Everyone’s scattering to teams in different states.
Just when I finally started to feel like I knew everyone, it’s all shifting again. ”
Her wistfulness hums through the line, and I recognize it instantly. It mirrors my own. I guess that’s why I’m drawn to her, why I keep answering when she calls. She’s lonely too. And she must sense it back in me.
We say our goodbyes, and promise to catch up properly soon. I set the phone down, and the boutique is too quiet again.
The dress clings to me in the mirror, green and luminous, the kind of gown people expect me to wear. It’s beautiful. Soft. Romantic. And completely wrong.
“Maybe something a little more form-fitting,” I tell the seamstress, forcing brightness into my tone. My fingers smooth over the silk, like I can press confidence into it. “Less damsel in distress?”
Her gaze sweeps over me slowly, precise, mapping every line of my body like a tailor and a sculptor rolled into one. A knowing smile curves her lips. “I’ve got just the thing.”