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12
Nova
My steps are light as I walk to the main house, the smile on my face genuine thanks to Riley and his sweet words.
Do not fall for him. Not even a little, I scold myself.He’s leaving.Catching feelings for him would lead to more pain. I can’t nurse my wounded heart by falling for someone else. It would only make things worse for me. But he doesn’t make it easy for a girl to resist his charm.
How is it that he doesn’t have a girlfriend? I bet there’s a trail of broken hearts behind him. He said he wasn’t always nice, although I’m not sure I believe that. I knew him when he was a child, and he was sweet back then.
If I can’t get answers from him or Gigi about why he’s hiding or what he was up to before coming here, maybe I can find some myself.
In the main house, a yawn escapes me as I climb the steps.No, no, no.I can’t fall asleep until a reasonable amount of sleuthing is done.
I make it to my room without another yawn. To be safe, I wash my face and change into my pajamas before climbing into bed. Then it’s on. Phone in hand, I search the internet for anything on Riley Cohen. Other than older stuff from when he was young and lived at home before college, there’s nothing.
Thirty minutes and two yawns later, I manage to find a picture of him with a bunch of crazy-hot guys at what looks like a party. It’s on some girl’s Instagram account—HarperDDLuv. The girl who posted it is a pretty brunette but when I click the link, it says the account no longer exists.
Who’s the girl? Did he date her? My guess is it’s from college because he doesn’t look much different, a bit younger and not as built.
After an hour of more searching and coming up empty, I give up on finding anything on Riley. Maybe he’s one of those anti-internet types. It fits with his personality.
I go to my Instagram and consider deactivating the account. Would doing so help?
Maybe I should just go to sleep. I’m about to close out when I notice I have a few messages. My gut tells me not to click on them, but I ignore it.
One message is from a follower who sent me a picture of Justice tripping on steps outside a bar and almost falling on his ass. She titled it,Jerk. It’s an old picture of him, though, from before we got together because his hair was still brown.
Another message is from some random guy asking me if I want to date. I delete it.
The last message is from a girl, and it’s titled,You look beautiful. Did you lose weight?
Huh?
There’s a picture of Justice and some tan, super-skinny girl on a yacht. Not me. Hope.
Because I’m stupid, I click the link. The next thing I know, I’m at Hope’s Instagram account.
Of all the places for them to honeymoon, they chose the South of France. Once, I told him I wanted to vacation there on a yacht, Princess Diana style. He didn’t appear to be listening. Guess he had been.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I click on a picture of Hope standing at the bow of the ship in a pose only a model could pull off. She has zero body fat or curves. Lean and toned, she looks like she spends hours doing Pilates. I read somewhere she’s obsessed with hot yoga. My mom is, too. I tried it a couple of years ago at my mom’s favorite yoga center in Connecticut and almost passed out. Not because I couldn’t do the workout. My body doesn’t regulate temperature well. Heat causes my blood sugar levels to drop. I grow lightheaded and feel like I’m about to faint. If I don’t bring my blood sugar up, I could faint. It’s hard to diet when you have to maintain a certain amount of carbohydrates. The celebrity diets are too dangerous for my health, which means, genetics aside, I’ll never be a twig.
Justice had a love-hate relationship with my body. He liked my boobs and butt; however, he wanted me to lose weight in certain areas. Like I have control over that.
Once, he rubbed the small pooch I have on my lower belly and asked whether I wanted a tummy tuck. I acted like his words didn’t hurt me, when inside they’d torn me apart.
Ever since I hit puberty and developed my curves, I’ve been scrutinizing my figure. I reach under my tank top and pinch my small belly. So what if my stomach is soft and not flat compared to Hope’s or most women in SoCal? It doesn’t mean I’m defective.
Before Dad died, he told me, “Never trust anyone who tries to change you.”
He said he made that mistake for most of his life and regrets ever trying, especially with my mom. He regretted a lot of stuff he did in his past, but he learned from it and changed.
I should accept and embrace my body, but it’s hard when I’m surrounded by a bunch of toothpicks.
I sigh and put down my phone. Comparing myself to Hope, or anyone else, won’t help me work through this emotional roller coaster. Neither will looking at Hope or Justice’s social media accounts. I promised myself and Porsha I would stop and have failed miserably, so far.
My phone chimes with a text.
I tense and nearly jump off the bed, thinking it’s Porsha, and she somehow knows I was spying on Justice again.
