Chapter twenty three #2
“Bro, what’s going on with you and Imogen?” One of the groomsmen said. It sounded like Brad.
“What do you mean?” Theo replied.
Fuck. I didn’t want to hear this, but at the same time I did. I closed my eyes and continued to listen in on a conversation that wasn’t meant for me.
“Well, the way she just looked at you during that speech man… it was like she was saying some of those words to you.”
Had I really been that obvious? Had everyone seen how desperate I was. There was a twist on my insides that almost hurt at the thought.
“We’re just friends,” he replied. “You know me…”
The guys all cheered and patted Theo on the back. “A girl in every port… maybe more.” One of them laughed.
“Yeah.” Theo agreed, though I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
“But I mean, you guys were sharing a room weren’t you.”
“And?”
“I know she’s a big girl… and not your usual choice, but she’s still fucking hot. I’d have taken one for the team and taken her to pound town.”
The was Brad, I recognised it. His words sounded so similar to how they had that day at the lake.
Except now I was at least worthy of a backhanded compliment.
Theo cleared his throat. “Bro… that’s my sister’s best friend, don’t talk about her like that.”
“Okay Okay… But did you?”
There was silence for a long time, a minute at least, then the boys cheered and there were more pats on the back. I felt sick. Theo was discussing what had happened with us with a group of drunk men who’d already made disparaging remarks about me.
“It was nothing.” Theo said finally, breaking what was left of my heart. “A wedding convenience.”
Junior Year – The Poetry Slam Incident
The auditorium smelled like dust, teenage sweat, and nervous ambition.
The annual school poetry slam was a bigger deal than it had any right to be, thanks to an English teacher who believed in “the catharsis of performance.”
I’d spent months on my piece. It wasn’t about a boy, not really.
It was about taking up space. About the quiet war between the body you have and the world that tells you it’s wrong. I’d called it Anchor.
I was third to last. My hands were slick on the single sheet of paper, the silver Believe pen heavy in my pocket like a talisman. I’d shown it to no one, not even Sloane. This was mine.
From the wings, I watched Hailey Morrison finish her poem about “starlit dreams” to polite applause. She was head cheerleader, effortlessly tiny, and her poem was exactly what everyone expected.
Then I walked into the spotlight.
The stage lights were hot and blinding. I could barely make out the faces in the first few rows. I took a shaky breath, unfolded my paper, and began.
My voice wavered at first, then found its rhythm. I spoke about density, about being solid in a world of gauze. About the gravitational pull of just existing. It was raw. It was true. For two minutes and seventeen seconds, I wasn’t hiding.
I finished. There was a beat of silence, then scattered, genuine applause from the teachers and a few kids. My heart soared. I’d done it.
I walked off stage, legs trembling with adrenaline and relief. I needed to get to the bathroom to splash water on my face before the winners were announced. I cut through the backstage area, a maze of old flats and ropes, when I heard voices around the corner. Hailey’s distinctive, melodic laugh.
“—did you hear that? ‘My bones are maps of forgotten mountains.’ What does that even mean?”
Another giggle. “It means she needs to lay off the cafeteria cookies. Talk about ‘density.’”
I froze, my back pressed against a cold, painted flat.
“It was so… earnest,” Hailey sighed, the word a weapon. “Like, we get it, you’re complicated and deep. Just say you’re fat and sad.”
The small group burst into laughter. One of the guys, Drew from the basketball team, chimed in. “I zoned out after the ‘heaving bosom’ line. Sounded like a bad romance novel.”
“The heaving bosom of my solitude,” Hailey quoted in a mock-dramatic whisper, and they all lost it again.
The paper in my hand, still warm from the stage lights, felt suddenly disgusting. My words—my careful, painfully honest words—were being chewed up and spat out as a punchline. The pride I’d felt curdled into a hot, shameful nausea in my throat. They hadn’t heard a poem. They’d heard a punchline.
I didn’t wait for the results. I turned and fled out the side door, the sound of their laughter chasing me down the empty hallway. I shoved the poem into the bottom of my backpack, where it stayed, crumpled and forgotten, for years.
I never told Sloane what I’d heard. I just said I didn’t win and didn’t want to talk about it. The humiliation was too complete, too intimate. They hadn’t just mocked me; they’d mocked the one thing I thought was safe from them—the words I used to understand myself.
It was the first time I learned that giving someone a piece of your true, unfiltered self doesn’t mean they’ll handle it with care. Sometimes, they just use it to find the softest place to cut.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from making a sound. Wedding convenience. Nothing. All those moments—the lake, the bath, his hands on me, his camera capturing me like I was art—reduced to two words. A convenience. Nothing.
I stood up carefully, my legs shaking. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I just needed to leave. Now.