21
21
Back at our house I ask the girls to give me some space for a while. I need time alone to let what happened today sink in, and to make peace with the fact I’m single once again.
Cheated on.
“Are you sure you don’t want some company?” Maya asks, both hands on my shoulders as she looks deep into my eyes, probably searching for some hidden cry for help. Or even just a sign I need a hug. “It’s better to have someone with you at times like this.”
“Trust me,” I tell her, even though I don’t know if I can trust my own words now, “I’ll be okay.”
At the very least I’ve been alone through this kind of pain before. Thanks to John, I’m well versed in the disappointment department. I always see his potential, not his actions, and each time I get my heart broken.
Even so, Jessie goes off to the kitchen to prepare me an iced coffee and delivers it to my room a few minutes later, along with the tray of fruit slices left over from breakfast. I’m starfished on my bed when she walks in, arms and legs out by my sides, staring up at the plain white ceiling. It’s a blank canvas, like my mind. Except with a blank canvas there’s potential for something beautiful to be created; my mind feels like a bleak, empty end. Numb and cold, no art to be gained from this crushing sense of rejection. The only emotion breaking through is the embarrassment of it all. Am I really so horrible at judging people’s character? Can I even trust myself to make the right choices anymore? Clearly I’ve fucked this up, so what about everything else? I’ve never felt so stupid in my life.
“We’ll be downstairs if you need us,” Jessie tells me sympathetically, stroking a strand of hair out of my face while she lies beside me for a while. “I’m sorry he hurt you like this, Princess. You deserve so much better.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say weakly, my voice barely there, distant, just like my emotions. I’m not even mad anymore. I simply feel nothing.
After she leaves I tilt my head to look out the window at the hillside, listening to the sounds of the girls in the kitchen below. I hear them move out to the pool area, the occasional burst of laughter carrying on the air along with the splash of water, but mostly just the murmurs of talking, much more serious than our carefree attitude last night. Sadness sits in my chest where my heart used to be, but knowing Val’s back and must be okay lightens my mood. Suddenly, I feel selfish for being so caught up in my own emotions, filled with a sense of self-loathing, because at the root of it all I guess this is kind of my fault for letting him back in.
Today really didn’t live up to expectations.
It’s not hate, but something else that fills me at the thought that John’s ruined yet another big event for me. I was supposed to be here with my girls having a great time, and sure, he isn’t responsible for Val’s actions earlier pulling us out of the Coachella spirit, but even if that didn’t happen first, I know I’d still be feeling numb right now.
It’s nobody’s fault except John’s. I try to reason with myself internally while the other thought rings loud and clear. And Riley’s too. But you didn’t cheat. You stayed loyal this whole time.
That thought at least gives me fresh hope. I shouldn’t just lie here wallowing in self-pity. I’m better than this.
I get up and stroll into my bathroom, grateful for the waterfall shower and jacuzzi tub. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I realize I’m still wearing the cowgirl outfit, all the glitter streaked down my face now, making me look kind of messy. I need to wash it off. All of it—the glitter, the outfit, the hairspray, the makeup, the memory of today, and my whole damn relationship.
I just need to feel like myself again.
Hitting the shower on, I strip out of my clothes and kick off the boots, then step beneath the waterfall of warm water and close my eyes.
Breathe in. . .
. . . and out.
In. . .
. . . and out.
Whenever I travel my bathrooms are always stocked with the same products I use when I’m in LA. It helps me feel a sense of normalcy since I’m on the road so much. There’s a collection of shower products unboxed and lined up in the shower ready for me. I distract myself by picking out the ones I want to use, the heady scents filling the air as I wash the glitter down the drain and lather the luxury shampoo into my hair. It calms me gradually, my tension and stress unknotting and easing with every passing second, until I feel refreshed and clean and much more like me. Worthy. Deserving. Better than this shit.
Then, stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself in a thick, fluffy towel and apply moisturizer and hair product, leaving my blonde tresses to dry naturally. I’m about to go back into my room and put on some clothes, maybe join the others by the pool, when something catches my eye.
Down on the floor, kicked into the corner of the room near the laundry hamper—just another one of his totally mature habits—is John’s shirt from this morning. The one he arrived in, fresh out of Riley’s house and into our kitchen to join us for a breakfast feast as if nothing even happened. A lump forms in my throat and sticks there as I imagine him waiting for us all to leave for the festival and then hopping into my shower to clean himself up, ready to race back out and meet her.
And then I wonder how many other times he’s turned up acting totally normal when in reality, he’s been living a lie.
Just like that, my bubble of rejuvenation bursts.
And I’m mad.
“Fuck you, John,” I cuss at the shirt, kicking it even farther into the corner as fresh tears burst from my eyes. “Fuck you, fuck her, fuck your immature . . . fucking . . .” I reach down and pick up the shirt with every intention of dumping it in the hamper, but then something stops me. Instead, I shake it out in front of me and hold it up to my nose, breathing in deep to the smell of his aftershave, the fruity scent of his vape, and the undertones of something else. A feminine, floral scent. A perfume that doesn’t belong to me.
I don’t even realize I’m screaming until I’ve halfway torn the shirt, ripping it right down the center in anger. It’s as if I black out, the emotion overcoming me in a strong wave of feeling, every past disappointment and tiny annoying detail I’ve brushed off coming right back around to hit me full force. I rip the shirt again, the satisfying zzzip of the fabric the only sound in my ears alongside my screams. But I don’t really hear it. Just like I don’t really process what I’m doing as I bundle the shirt so tight around my hand it hurts and then launch myself at my stupid fucking reflection.
There’s a crack at first, and then I hit it again, the overwhelming surge of energy so uncontrollable it burns with a sting that runs up my arms. Or maybe that’s just the pain of my rage. As the mirror splinters into hundreds of tiny shards, I see myself in every one: broken beyond repair. This time when the tears fall they don’t stop, and when I breathe out, I can’t seem to pull my breath back in. Short, sharp, shallow gasps leave me lightheaded, and the next thing I know I’m on my ass on the cold tile with warm arms wrapped around me, cheeks wet with tears, face pushed into the satin material of someone else’s robe.
“Valerie?” I pull back to look into her face. Her eyes are still kind of faraway but she’s fresh and clean out of the shower, too, her balayage hair loose and damp around her shoulders, and the worry on her face mirrors my own from when I held her earlier.
“Babe, what the fuck?” she asks loudly, her voice slicing through my bad mood and breaking it down into more manageable doses. The pain of it all hurts just as much, but not all at once now, as I train my eyes on hers and try to keep a clear enough head to respond.
“Goddamn it, Princess, we thought you were dying in here, being attacked or something. Is everything okay?”
I look up at the doorway, where Tripp’s leaning with his hands either side of the frame, poking his head around to check I’m all right. Val looks at him as she stands up, and I notice for the first time she has 911 ready to call on his phone as she hands it back to him, locking the screen.
“We were ready to call the freakin’ cops,” he explains as he takes the phone back, letting out a relieved sigh. “Shit.”
“You really scared us.” Val helps me up off the floor with both hands, reaching to grab my towel before it slips and reveals all to Tripp. Not that I care about that right now. Nothing could ever be more humiliating than knowing I fell for John’s transparent bullshit once again. “What happened?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t want to talk about it,” I manage, my words no more than a mumble, my throat still hoarse from screaming. I look down at my hand, the ripped shirt still wrapped tight around it, protecting my skin from the broken glass. Thank god. I don’t even want to think about how I would’ve explained those injuries. “Sorry.”
“Everything’s okay,” she reassures me, holding on to my waist, noticing my hands trembling. “You’re shaking, take some deep breaths.”
She’s totally unaware of what happened with John, oblivious to the news and still dealing with her own issues under the surface. No wonder she’s confused—it’s only been a few hours since we were all happy and smiling, after all. So much really can change in a day. Funny how it’s always the bad changes that come up fast.
“I need to lie down,” I hear myself say, but even as I step back into the bedroom it feels like my limbs are moving of their own accord. My mind’s just a passenger in my body, and as I land on the feather-soft mattress with heavy limbs and a heavier heart, I’m grateful for Tripp, who pulls the curtains over the huge windows.
I put my friends through that. Holy shit. I’ve never lost control that way before. Regret floods in as I think about how scared they must’ve been, how insane I must look to them, how humiliating it’ll be to talk about this later.
“It’s not worth it, whatever it is,” Tripp tells me, squeezing Val’s shoulder as if to urge her out of the room. “Get some rest, you’ll feel better. Call if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice barely a croak as exhaustion settles deep in my bones. Giving a hopeless sigh, I curl up in the fetal position under the covers, not even caring about my wet hair or the fact I’m only wearing a towel.
“If you need me, I’m just down the hall,” Val says.
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble into the pillows, too groggy to bother talking anymore.
The door shuts quietly behind them both, and for the next few hours I sink into a dreamless sleep, not even interrupted by the buzz of my cell phone on the nightstand beside me. When I wake up to a pitch-black room later, I don’t realize the phone is vibrating until the light of my screen casts a blue glow across the soft sheets. I pull myself up in the bed and rest my back against the headboard, pushing my air-dried hair out of my face.
No surprise, there’s a string of unopened texts from John right at the top of my notifications, the newest one from just two minutes ago. I don’t even bother to check them. I almost forgot the sense of despair while I slept, but seeing his name again is the worst type of reminder. It brings a sick feeling to my stomach, flooding me with all those negative emotions all over again.
I clear my notifications.
Like I wish I could clear my head.
It’s past midnight, no sound from downstairs. I guess everyone went to bed already, or maybe they’re out partying like I should be.
Getting comfy, I click onto my recent calls and hover my thumb over Mom’s name for a few seconds. I should talk to her—she always gives the best advice in situations like this. But instead my gaze slips to a different name.
And then I’m back on our messages, grinning like a fool as I sit alone in the dark reading through them. Not John but Win, one of the only men in this crazy life who hasn’t let me down.
I don’t know why I do it, but before I know what’s happening, I’m calling him on FaceTime.
“This is so dumb,” I mutter to myself, breaking free of my moment of insanity and finally moving to cancel the call. But—
“What’s dumb?” His rumbling nighttime voice hits me directly in my core, the sound moving my body instinctively. My heart rate picks up as I tilt the screen to see him.
“Sorry,” I lie. “I didn’t mean to call.”
“Shame,” he says casually, and as the phone screen moves while he adjusts his position, I see his dark bedsheets and mussed hair. Clearly, I woke him up. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You were?” I ask, feeling his confession like a lick of heat.
“No, Princess,” he deadpans. “It’s one in the morning. I was sound asleep in bed like any sane person should be.”
I laugh reflexively, though really, it’s humiliation I feel. God, I hope I didn’t sound too enthusiastic there. “Sorry,” I say again. “It really was a mistake.”
“It’s all good. I have my notifications silenced after ten, except for from you.” He chuckles, almost seeming embarrassed, but then his expression turns quizzical. “Why aren’t you out partying like a good little Coachella VIP?”
“Uh, it’s kind of complicated.”
He shifts to sit up straight in his bed. “Princess . . .”
“It’s nothing, Win.”
“Talk to me.” His tone leaves no room for protest. The way he speaks makes it seem like he already knows exactly what I’m about to tell him. “Come on, you already woke me up—I could use some pillow talk.”
“And I could use a hug,” I grumble, not missing the amused quirk of his lips as he watches me gather my thoughts. He seems genuinely interested in hearing me out. So instead of brushing it off, I tell him everything, starting with the Val situation and ending on John’s string of unopened messages—another of which pops up as I speak.
“Jeez.” He lets out a low whistle. “You really could use a hug, huh?”
“It’s been a fucking day, Win.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I don’t know why he—” I don’t get to finish my sentence before my voice cracks on another round of tears. “Fuck,” I sob, wiping at my cheeks. “I’m so sorry I’m keeping you up like this. It’s so not your problem. You should be aslee—” I finally glance at the screen and notice he’s out of bed now, pulling on a shirt and flicking on the lights as he walks through his house. “Wait, what are you doing?”
“Coming to pick you up,” he says like it’s nothing. “You’re not happy there.”
“Win—”
“It’s nonnegotiable,” he says, not in any sort of controlling tone, but in such a way that makes it sound like the obvious, easy solution. Never mind the fact it’s one in the morning and he owes absolutely none of his time or kindness to me. “Put your stuff together and get something to eat, and I’ll be there as fast as the traffic will allow.”
“Are you insane?” I laugh, barely believing this. “I’m in freaking Coachella Valley, Win! You’re in Los Angeles—it’s like a three-hour drive!”
“I can make it there and back in time for work tomorrow.” He shrugs. “I already have the address, so just hang tight. You should probably let the girls know you’re leaving.”
My body’s practically vibrating with the excitement of all this. “Are you being serious right now?”
He jangles his car keys in front of the camera. “Yep.”
“This is crazy.”
He chuckles. “Crazy isn’t always a bad thing, Princess.”