He just stood there, looking at me as if he had every right to say those words, to make those claims.

Because he’s not me.

A hollow ache settled deep in my chest, spreading like a sickness. I swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease the weight of the last five months pressing down on me like a loaded gun.

I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Thank God.”

Blake’s expression cracked just long enough for me to see it—the flicker of something he’d tried so hard to bury.

Fed up with it all, I pointed at the door. “Get out.”

He didn’t move.

“Blake.” My voice wavered. “I said, get out.”

His jaw clenched, and his fists flexed at his sides.

“Is that all you do these days? Clench your jaw and ruin my life?” I asked, my voice dripping with contempt. “Get out. Now.”

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if debating whether to fight me on it. But then his shoulders sagged slightly, and he exhaled a sharp breath before stepping back.

His expression became blank again. He turned and walked out without another word, the door swinging shut behind him.

I locked it for good measure.

I barely made it to the bathroom sink before my breaths became shaky, before my reflection stared back at me with wide, glassy eyes, before I realized I was still trembling, still heartbroken.

Before I realized that, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted to believe the words ‘Thank God’ that had just left my mouth, they weren’t true.

32

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

I regretted everything.

I regretted not getting my license when I had the chance. I regretted waking up to my period and still stubbornly deciding to go through with this stupid date. I regretted not taking extra painkillers before leaving the house. But most of all, I regretted the fact that I was about to pedal all the way into the city while feeling like my insides were being shredded to pieces.

The smart thing would have been to reschedule, to curl up in bed with a heating pad and binge-watch something mindless while devouring an ungodly amount of chocolate. But I couldn’t. Because if I canceled, Blake would win.

To make matters worse, I had chosen the pinkest outfit I could find—because why not be cute while suffering? A cropped cardigan in the perfect shade of bubblegum pink paired with a matching skirt that, in theory, screamed stylish and chic.

In reality, it was a disaster. The skirt rode up with every step, and the breeze outside promised to make things even worse.

I tugged it down for what had to be the hundredth time, already exhausted by the battle I was clearly destined to lose.

I stared at my bike, as if hoping it might suddenly transform into a car. No such luck.