Chapter 49
ANNA
Luke and I were over.
But it was impossible to avoid him because he was everywhere I went.
On my phone. In every headline. Smiling next to an endless parade of starlets, each more beautiful than the last.
Every time I opened social media, there was Luke Fisher, larger than life. My stomach twisted as I scrolled through the comments, each one worse than the last.
“A movie star and a model? Shocking.”
“Another day, another co-star hookup. Hollywood Bingo, anyone?”
“Guess he’s not still with that bartender from New Orleans. No surprise there.”
Each statement felt like a slap, a reminder of what I already knew: I didn’t belong in his world. I never had. But then, my inner voice, always a little too eager to kick me when I was down, piped up.
Did I push him away first? Was I too scared to let him in?
I was leaning against the bar at Muses one afternoon, trying to drown out the doubts, when Marie Antoinette burst into the room like a whirlwind. She was still in costume from giving a tour of the French Quarter, and it made her entrance very dramatic.
I sighed, holding up my phone so she could see. It was a photo of Luke, looking devastatingly handsome as always, smiling next to his ridiculously gorgeous co-star on some red carpet. “Look at this. He’s with her now.”
She peered at the screen, her painted eyebrows rising dramatically. “Oh, please.” She tilted her head as if evaluating a fine painting. “Her smile? Too many teeth. She probably gargled with glitter before the photo op. Completely fake.”
I let out a small laugh, despite myself. “She’s perfect.”
“And you’re you.” She grabbed my phone and set it face down on the bar. “Which is infinitely better. You know, breakups are the universe’s way of saying that you’re destined for a better story.”
“Who said that?”
“Me,” she said. “I said that. Now stop stalking him and tell me why you haven’t submitted that story yet. Or better yet, explain why you’re still wearing that tragic ‘woe-is-me’ expression when you could be living your best life.”
“It’s not that simple,” I protested.
She rolled her eyes. “It is that simple. Are you seriously going to sit here wallowing all night, or are you finally going to submit that story and stop being a coward?”
“I’m not a coward,” I said, though my voice wavered, betraying me.
My friend crossed her arms, tilting her head with a smirk that was equal parts sass and challenge. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re scared to live your life.”
“Excuse me?” I sat up straighter.
“Oh, please.” She paced around the room like she was delivering a monologue. “You had Luke Fisher. Freaking Luke Fisher. And you let him walk away. For what? Your fear of rejection? Guess what, sweetheart? You already rejected yourself.”
“Wow, thanks for the pep talk.” I shot back, my cheeks burning.
“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t earned it.” Her hands were on her hips. “You’re scared of rejection? Welcome to the human experience. But newsflash, Anna: living in this pity party isn’t safe. It’s just sad.”
Pity party. That was the same thing that Luke had said to me. I opened my mouth to retort, but no words came out. Marie Antoinette had a way of cutting right to the truth, and whether I wanted to admit it or not, she was right.
“Here’s the deal.” She sat down next to me and patted my hand like a benevolent queen.
“You can either keep scrolling through those articles like some self-punishment ritual, or you can do something about it. Submit the story. It’s the best story you’ve written since the one you wrote about your mother when you were in college.
Take a risk. If you fail, you fail. But at least you’ll know you tried. ”
The comparison hit me like a punch to the chest. My mother.
That story had been raw, personal—it had meant something.
And after that, what had I done? I'd spent years writing safe pieces.
Fiction, sure, but stories where I could hide behind dystopian worlds or other countries or other times.
Stories where rejection didn't feel personal because I wasn't really in them.
But this story? This was me. My life. My messy, complicated feelings laid bare on the page, even if the names were changed.
The last time I'd put myself out there like this, I'd written about my mother. And now, years later, I'd finally written something personal again. And I was terrified. Terrified of rejection.
I blinked back tears. My one chance at making something of myself was sitting on my computer, abandoned and gathering digital dust.
She spoke again, “Luke asked you to go to LA, right?”
My voice caught. “He did.”
“Then why didn’t you go?” She pressed, her tone sharp as she accepted a patron’s payment, then slammed the register drawer shut.
The sound echoed between us. She took a breath, her voice lowering as her gaze met mine.
“You’re scared because of your mom. Losing her in Katrina broke something in you.
It made you believe that leaving New Orleans would cost you everything.
You’ve been punishing yourself ever since. ”
I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not scared.”
She shook her head. “Say it again. Loud enough for the people in the back.”
I tried, but the words came out thin, uncertain. “I’m not scared.”
She held my eyes. “Okay, fine. You’re scared, Anna. And that’s allowed. But it doesn’t mean you have to turn around and walk away from something good. You’re honoring your mom by living, not by standing still.”
I was speechless.
Marie Antoinette patted my hand gently. “Don’t let fear run your life.”
I exhaled, nodding. “I understand.”
And I did. A flicker of courage pushed past my sorrow. The first glimmer of a choice: to stay and move forward, without losing the past.