The thing is, he’s saying the right things, but I can tell by his tone he doesn’t believe it. See, I’ve noticed something about people over the last year or two. Even when they consider themselves rational, and fair, they usually believe the story they hear first. Ever heard the phrase “the best defense is a good offense”? This is a prime example. The person who gets their version of events out first is the one who gets to author the history books. Writing history is easy. Rewriting it is the tough job.

Unfortunately for me, Jordy made sure to get his version of events out before I even knew there was a race. In his version, Jordy tearfully broke up with me when he had to move countries, and told me he’d never forget me. Then, I somehow took that to mean we were still together, despite Jordy’s very clear breakup speech. Shortly after, I sent my friend in Canada to stalk him, and then flew into a jealous rage when she reported back that he’d moved on, accusing him of cheating on me for no reason.

It’s a great story for Jordy. Sure does paint him in the world’s most positive light. Da Vinci himself couldn’t make a prettier picture.

Pity it’s all bullshit.

Andre’s friends must be wondering where he’s gone off to by now, but he doesn’t seem all that bothered about ditching them. Another pity.

Rosie, who doesn’t look super thrilled to have him at the table anymore, notices my expression and takes it upon herself to change the subject. God fucking bless the girl. “So, did you go to Sigmund High, then?” she asks Andre.

As Andre replies, Olivia leans in to me. “Hey. You okay?”

I straighten and plaster a smile onto my face. “Mhm. I’m used to it.”

Jordy’s not on the TV anymore, but I can still see his face as he posed in front of the orphanage. Smiling at the presenter the way he used to smile at me. Like she’s the most interesting person in the world.

God, that look used to make my heart feel like it was gonna burst clean out of my chest.

I wonder how many others feel like that when they see Jordy Miller smile at them from the TV. Or magazines. Or the posters on their walls.

How many of them see his shell and believe they know what’s under those layers of charm? And what would they say if they found out?

Olivia gives me a skeptical look, and I’m about to insist I’m really okay in the kind of shrill tone that totally convinces people you’re definitely not being defensive, when my phone rings. Saved by the bell. “Hold on, sorry,” I say, bringing the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Maya Bailey?”

“Speaking.”

“This eezgwend bushmeeford zhombareemaday—”