Billie’s most recent story shows a screenshot of a promotional poster, and they’ve even tagged the bar. Relief washes over me. Billie, my saviour!
I decide to stash my suitcase behind the garden hedge in front of Finn’s place, hoping to god that it will go unnoticed until I get back.
I call another Uber and fidget with a rip in my jeans for the entire drive there. After buying a ticket and getting my hand stamped at the front door, I finally make my way inside. It’s loud, with music blaring from speakers on every wall. The crowd is a sea of people with multicolour hair and nearly every outfit has some sparkle reflecting the lights.
God, this looks like fun. I smile for the first time in ages, a huge, radiating smile. Looking around the bar, I decide to start making my way through the chaos to see if I can find Finn.
But I get the prickly feeling on the back of my neck like someone’s watching me. I turn towards the stage, where a person in an aquamarine wig is looking directly at me, surprise on their face.
Billie.
My smile only gets bigger. I mouth towards them, Is Finn here?
Appearing to be a bit stunned by my presence, Billie nods at me like I’m a ghost, before pointing towards the back corner of the bar. I can’t see Finn from here, but I head in that direction.
Real.
I finally spot his perfect, swoopy hair through the crowd of people and I feel my breath catch. Even this brief glimpse of him does something to me, my legs turning to jelly. I stop in my tracks, unable to take another step.
This, I think, is what it’s supposed to feel like.
He turns my way, his head snapping suddenly in my direction, as if he caught a glimpse of me, and our eyes lock.
We stare at each other, neither of us moving. My smile starts to fade as I notice he doesn’t exactly seem happy to see me.
I can’t blame him. That morning in the cabin, I’d been utterly terrified. The idea that he could feel the same way scared me—and had caused an immediate, catastrophic crashout.
Something in me starts to crumple. I had imagined this going differently. And now reality is setting in like a cold fall wind: brisk and chilling.
Get it together, Violet.
I have to at least try to be honest with him, to tell him how I feel. That it was real for me, too. And if he didn’t mean it, or if he’s changed his mind, well, at least I was honest with him—and with myself.
I think back to the many, many times my own self-doubt had caused me not to see things clearly. The most recent example being with Sherry, who I’d spent almost two years thinking hated me. And not giving her any credit that she might have understood what I was going through—and that one bad night wasn’t enough to undo all the other work I’d done. Wasn’t enough to cancel out everything else I have to offer.
So one bad morning with Finn doesn’t negate the rest of our summer, right?
Finn swallows and I see him take a step, before his gaze is ripped from mine, his eyes glancing down to the woman beside him.
She’s beautiful, because of course she’s beautiful—a blonde with a tiny frame and long hair halfway down her back. She touches his arm to get his attention, pulling him down to say something in his ear.
And then it hits me.
This must be her. The person he was trying to impress and make jealous with our fake relationship—to prove he could be a good boyfriend to—and it must have worked if they’re here together.
I feel like a vice has gripped around my heart.
Here I am, once again, the weird girl who has inserted herself somewhere she isn’t wanted. Who has shown too much of her real self and expected a different outcome.
This, I think, is why you shouldn’t let anyone get too close.
I can’t hear the music anymore, I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I force myself to calm my roiling stomach, to look away from the horrific scene before me. It may as well be a car crash.
I feel, more than see, that Finn is looking nervously back in my direction.
I have to get out of here.
In a daze, I shove through the crowd of people, stumbling back outside and onto the street—desperate and gasping in the cool night air. I wipe my sweating palms on my jeans, having to brace my hands on my knees from the force of what’s just hit me.
