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“I’ll remind you of it tomorrow,” Molly chimes in beside her.
I toss the sweatshirt onto the grill, and the flames slowly envelop the fabric. We watch the fire dance around, suffocating the old token of my past.
A relief I didn’t expect floods into my chest, more soothing than the other attempts we’ve tried today.
A new beginning with no memories hidden away in my closet.
“There’s one more thing you have to do, Lil.” Avery hands over my cell phone with a knowing look in her hazel eyes.
While the last remnants of the sweater burn, I scroll through my contacts until my finger lands on Never Fucking Answer.
I open it and finally hit the block button. Then I navigate through the countless other platforms he’s tried to contact me on and block him there too.
No more annual birthday texts.
No more DMs.
A lifetime of space for new memories.
* * *
For the past month,my therapist has been encouraging me to do things that bring me joy.
Being forced to take this semester off from college has been a blessing in disguise. I’ve let myself fill my days with storytelling and daydreaming. I can’t believe a part of me wanted to give up writing romance for good.
Having my book plagiarized scared me. It made me feel violated and alone.And I let Chuck and my creative writing professor plant doubts in my head that my voice isn’tserious.
But I never should have doubted myself.
I’m capable and, obviously, successful.
The money in my bank account proves to me that this whole author thing is very,veryreal.
Getting a business degree was never truly my dream.
The first time I tried writing this month, only plots of taking down some douchebag came to mind, but I don’t want to write those stories anymore.?
The surfer novella I began in Brazil was a great starting point for a work that’s more meaningful.
Of course, the hero of the book resembles Nico and, this time, I can’t wait to admit that to him.
Relearning how to think about love through therapy and storytelling has been liberating.
“You have to come out of there eventually.” Molly raps at my bedroom door and steps into the room, pulling my eyes away from my computer screen.
Her outfit today is a pair of black pants, a cotton sweater, and a ribbon pulling her copper curls above her head. It’s the complete opposite of her typically vibrant assortment of colors.
“I’m flowing,” I remind her, taking another bite of popcorn and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos—the superior writing combo. I unglue myself properly from the screen and turn to face my roommate. I wipe the fluorescent-red dust off my fingers and onto a paper towel.
“You’ve been in this writing cave for ten days, and weneedto celebrate,” Molly says.
“I haven’t heard back from Tianna, so I’m not sure if we should celebrate yet.”
Tianna, the lawyer Luca introduced me to, is wrapping up the case against Professor Miller. I need to decide by next week if I’m going to follow through with presenting my case to the college board so that I can appeal my failed creative writing grade and have Professor Miller reprimanded.
Going through with the case means I’ll publicly out myself as Zoe Mona. It’s a decision I’m not approaching lightly.
I’m not ashamed of my almost decade-long hidden identity, but I don’t think I can ever bejustZoe Mona again.
