25
25
I just finish a call with Mom the next day—updating her on the record store appearance and how Win saved the day, as usual. It was easy; I took photos for them, did a quick meet and greet with some fans. It was smooth, not much more to it. Jessie FaceTimes to fill me in on the Coachella gossip. I bring my phone with me into my bedroom and prop Jessie up beside me while I lay out some art supplies and start to paint overlooking the skyline. I usually end up painting these girls—I call them the HappiGirls—that always have a big forehead, big eyes, and big lips. Usually they’re crying or look really disturbed. I don’t know why they come out like that but they always do. Some people tell me I need therapy when they see them, which is kind of funny to me. But on second thought, maybe they have a point.
Anyway, despite how dark they might look, it’s therapeutic; painting has always helped me relax and tune out the world. It’s the same way I feel when I make music, but with way less pressure to create something people will judge. Although it’s kind of impossible to ignore Jessie’s wild laughter as she recalls all the crazy shit Maya did after I left the valley.
“Something hot and heavy was definitely going down in Val’s room,” she gushes, and I whip my head around to look at her.
“With Tripp?”
“Obviously.” Jessie takes a sip of her cold brew back in her room in San Francisco, and I slump back in my seat with relief. “I had second-hand embarrassment for her, though. We could pretty much hear everything that was going on. Tripp was really going for it in there. The guys who came back with us got a real kick out of that whole situation.”
“Oh my god. What guys?”
“Oh, just some randoms who kind of attached themselves to Maya. I was trying to pull her away from them but they kept following us around and then Maya got it into her head that one of them liked me, so then she was trying to set us up, I guess. You know me, and that didn’t work.”
I chuckle. Jessie’s so bad at reading signals from guys it’s a running joke between us. “You probably had her so frustrated.” Then I pause. “Actually, let’s be real, I bet she was having the time of her life.”
“Three guys giving her all their attention? You freaking bet she was.” Jessie giggles. “Pretty sure the one she was trying to set me up with had already forgotten my name by the time he left in the morning.”
“Oh, so Maya had a lil sleepover too, huh?” I raise my eyebrows suggestively.
“I was surrounded, Princess.” The deadpan look on Jessie’s face makes me howl with laughter. “No, but seriously, they were both in their rooms getting their brains fucked out and then there’s me sitting under the covers scrolling freaking TikTok trying not to overhear them, and all the videos coming up are, like, ads for vibrators and steamy book quotes and shit. Talk about calling me out!” She holds her head dramatically, and I laugh even harder at the mental image. Poor Jess.
We sit talking while I paint for another half hour, and when it’s just me again and the room’s silent, my thoughts wander back to the past few days and everything that went down between me and John. In a way, I’m glad I caught him, because it just confirmed to me that I was right to have a gut feeling something wasn’t right all along.
Getting up out of my seat, another painting completed, I realize what I need to do next.
There’s an old suitcase in my closet that I used when I first came to LA from Guam. I pull it out and memories flood in of me and Mom lugging it around between hotels and some of my first shows, the thing near bursting at the seams with all our belongings, which grew and grew over the months we spent trying to find my big break. Deciding it’s too precious to use for this, I roll it back into the closet and pull out a newer Rimowa suitcase instead. It’s one I used on my last tour, but it doesn’t hold sentimental value like the first bag. This one’s large and has wheels, and it’ll be perfect for the job.
I open it on the floor of my closet and then make my way over to the section I always left empty for John. Over the months he slowly filled it with clothes and vinyl records and some of the cute little gifts I got for him, like the wooden picture frame with our names etched into it that he always said he’d find the perfect photo for and would put up at his place.
It’s only now, as I pick it up and turn it over in my hands to see the hidden personalization on the back, a small note with a date from last year, that a little voice in the back of my mind tells me he probably had no intention of ever displaying it at his place—or even letting it leave this closet. My heart sinks. I know that’s not true, but I can feel my eyes start to burn. I don’t want to cry so I push the thoughts away. Could he seriously have been playing Riley and me off each other the whole time? The idea turns my stomach. I never imagined I’d be this na?ve; I’ve been in LA for long enough to know that there are as many snakes as there are ladders. This behavior just isn’t John.
With a sigh, I wonder if I should even pack all this stuff for him or if it just needs to go in the trash. I grab a pile of neatly folded T-shirts and place them in the suitcase first, using them as padding for the frame. I reach for the stack of love notes I’ve given to him throughout our relationship. I wonder whether or not to let him have them or if they should stay with me for safe keeping. He doesn’t deserve to reread them—who knows who he might show them to. After going back and forth, making up a thousand scenarios arguing both sides of whether to keep or pack them, I give up and reluctantly place them in the bag. Maybe him seeing it all will be a good reminder of what he’s losing. A reminder of all his forgotten promises.
Don’t overthink it.
Still, my cheeks heat up as I finish packing all his stuff, moving into my bathroom and collecting his things from in there. I take my time packing them in a new toiletry bag, fitting it in neatly alongside his clothes and records and all the other stuff. In my mind, if I take my time and do everything neatly he’ll understand that I’m calm, I’ve made my decision, and I’m serious. This isn’t some rash, spur-of-the-moment decision; I actually thought this through. I’m not throwing his things in a bag in some emotional rage. It’s just over, done, and I’m showing him I’m mature enough to handle it respectfully—which is more than can be said for him.
When everything’s packed and ready to go, I unlock my phone and pull up our text thread. He sent me another 11:11 message this morning, but there’s been nothing since. I can’t lie, seeing the message makes my heart sting. And though I don’t want him to be blowing up my phone with apologies, and I know Win told him clearly to back off, it still kind of hurts to think he’d give up so easily. Am I really worth so little to him? This is not how I wanted things to go.
John: “If they can hurt you and then walk away, don’t hurt yourself twice following after them.”
I think about that for a moment. Is it possible I hurt him too? Did I cross the line going off with Win, sleeping in his bed that night—wasn’t all that just as bad?
I can hear Maya’s voice in my head screaming at me, Are you kidding me? At least you had the decency to break up with him first, and you didn’t even do anything with Win! John was literally making out with Riley in public, making a laughingstock of you and your fucking relationship.
And that’s when it hits. John really thinks he’s the victim here. I’ll never get through to him, and he’ll probably never realize just how much he’s messed with me. The whole damn world revolves around him, but as of right now, I don’t live in his orbit.
I type out my message quickly, knowing what I need to say once and for all.
Me: Hey, no need to reply, I just wanted to let you know. I’ve made up my mind, John, and this relationship is over. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I know my worth and I don’t want to hate you, but I can’t have you in my life anymore, in any capacity. I’m not interested in being friends or in anything more with you. When you’re back from Coachella you can come pick up your stuff. It’ll be downstairs with the front desk.
Before I can think twice, I hit Send.
And then I breathe out the biggest fucking sigh of relief as I crash back onto the soft pillows of my bed.