CHAPTER 8
Ana
I ARRIVE BACK—thankfully—to a quiet apartment.
The light from the refrigerator glows as I enter my room, finding Mishi asleep on my study desk.
After showering, I relax into the soft sheets, navigating my phone for the emails I forgot to check in the morning. Scrolling past promotional messages and a few spam, my eyes fall on one subject line:
Halo Partner Update
Dear Ana,
We regret to inform you that Halo will no longer be sponsoring you.
We appreciate your dedication and support for our brand, and as our token of appreciation, we will be sending you a 30% coupon for your next purchase of $150 and up.
Please find your unique coupon code and our new loungewear collection below!
The Halo Team
30% off? How generous of them.
Theoretically, this one shouldn’t sting as bad. Not when it’s, what feels like, the thirtieth partnership drop.
Except, it does. Sting. Really bad.
It’s par for course, I remind myself, but then accidently make the mistake of going on social media, only to be slapped with a screen-wide image of Troy on Dior’s official page, wearing a grey suit, his chestnut hair slicked back.
The picture, itself, is solid enough, where even I could admit he doesn’t look abysmal if I didn’t know him, of course.
This is the last moment I needed a reality check that, if Troy was the one who lost last time, he’d still be extended any invitation. There will always be a demand for it. If not Dior, Ralph Lauren Polo, Prada, or a sea of other notable fashion houses, ready to spotlight their sought-after sponsor.
With a face of a literal couture model and body of an insanely dedicated athlete, the guy doesn’t even need the nudge from his prestigious family to help him climb up in social status.
If Troy Larsson steps into a room, he’ll—guaranteed—be met with floods of options, options in girls, options in career pivots, options that in any realm where his name, face, or support is involved, will cause an overwhelmingly positive media and public frenzy.
Ego aside, the sponsorships alleviated at least a fraction of pressure off me that went into my shifts at the diner. Now, the hourglass has been tipped some more, and the lost compensation has to be amended for.
You’ll figure it out. You’ll figure it out, I keep repeating in my mind, until my heart rate soothes.
My diary.
I reach for my drawer, shuffling through it.
Sometimes, I read over an entry from the morning, or make edits to it, if I can’t wait for the following day. Only one sentence from earlier is in urgent need of an update:
I tried to do it today, but I choked. Again.
Still restless, I try and search for a distraction. Too late for a hookup, I conclude, I shut my phone off, then dig through my drawer quietly to not wake Mishi, before finding the lavender toy.
I pull down my cotton shorts and underwear to the side, resting the silicone vibrator against my clit. When my thoughts continue to flicker, I increase the speed, adding some suction to the mix. The pleasure, soon, drowns the noise, but my release feels as empty as my state.