Beep. Beep. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The alarm clock chimes incessantly in my ear until I slap a hand over it, silencing the Goddamn thing.

“Jesus Christ …” I mutter to myself, rolling over as my head feels like an entire pound of bricks was dumped on it.

Light pours in from behind my beige curtains, tinting the room a spectacular color of summer sun yellow. I’m sure it’s beautiful outside of those windows, but right now, the idea of lying in this bed with a big fat greasy omelet sounds like the best idea in the world.

Unfortunately, that is not an option. As a resident, read that as dermatology bitch, I am the lucky recipient of the Sunday shift in the private office I’ve been working in for my clinical. So, I’ll have to settle for a cold cup of coffee on my drive in, because looking at the clock, I realize I’m late.

So late, in fact, that I hope my makeup and hair are still semi-intact from the wedding last night because I’m definitely not going to have time to shower.

Fuck. Last night. It all comes rushing back to me like a waterfall being poured over my head, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Dean Jacobs, in the flesh. Saying things, that Goddamn song playing in the background of our reunion. And fuck, those photographers. My drunk memory tries to scramble to keep up, because sober me this morning does not have all of the details.

Kicking my feet out of bed and onto the cream-colored carpet, I pick up the dress I must have stripped myself out of before I’d tumbled into bed. The Uber home was a blur, and it was a miracle I’d gotten out of the wedding venue with my purse. Why can’t I focus on the task of getting dressed for work?

Oh right, because the only thing I can see are those fuck-me tattoos that now covered Dean’s arms.

“Get a grip, Kara.” I talk to myself as I round to the mirror.

The damage actually isn’t too terrible, and with a few rubs of a tissue under my eyes, some mascara, and a strategically placed bobby pin or five, I’m looking work-ready in about twenty minutes. I don my black professional slacks, a sleeveless yellow turtleneck sweater, and slide my Fitbit onto my wrist. Because after all, if you’re not tracking your steps, did you even take them?

Sliding my feet into black leather flats, I assess myself before walking out of my bedroom door. I’d looked better, but I’d definitely looked worse.

Opening my door, the sound of Mom’s morning news program hits my ears as I descend the stairs, the smell of coffee and bacon making my hungover stomach weep. My childhood home is on the “nice” side of Elm Hill, a product of my dad’s IT management job and mom’s successful home baking company. An only child, I was never denied what I asked for, but we weren’t rich by any means. We were what Americans called “well off,” but still middle class.

Case in point: while my parents were amazing enough to pay for my undergrad out of their own pockets, they didn’t have the cash to be able to send me full ride to graduate school. And so here I was, loans up to my ears fighting the clock until the day I could get a real paying job in the medical field.

“We missed you at the end of the wedding! When we got home, your father found you snoozing in bed like a cute little bear.” Mom kissed my cheek as I sped around her all-white kitchen, looking for a travel mug to pour coffee into.

I’d forgotten I was supposed to go home with my parents. I guess seeing the boy, who was now a rockstar, that had broken your heart while six drinks deep could do that to a girl.

“Sorry about that, I was just tired and wanted to go to bed. It was a nice wedding though; did you guys have fun?”

I seal the lid on the car cup, spotting my dad out the window as he fired up the lawn mower.

“Your father learned something called the Cupid Shuffle, which was quite fun. It was beautiful, I’m so happy for Marie. Oh, to have your daughter be a married woman …”

Mom looks off dreamily as I almost spit the non-existent coffee out of my mouth. Imagining my typically straight-laced, but loving, father doing the Cupid Shuffle makes me want to roll on the floor laughing. Literally.

I completely ignore Mom’s comment, knowing that as I creep closer to thirty she wants nothing more than a grandchild to fawn over. I don’t have to infer that, she’s flat out told me. Screw medical school or having a successful career, no … this woman would rather I have a ring on my finger and push a child out of my vagina.

“Sounds great, Mom … but I’m late. I’ll see you tonight, let me know if you need me to pick up anything on my way home.”

Somehow, I sprint to my car and get to the office with two minutes to spare before I’m actually supposed to be there. For a Sunday, the parking lot is oddly full, but maybe there are a lot of teenagers requiring acne medication today. Who knows.

I grab my oversized purse, filled with mostly items that I never use but am too lazy to clean out, off the passenger seat of my midsize, used Acura and start across the pavement.

“Kara! Kara O’Connor!” Someone is shouting my name across the blacktop, a bunch of figures appearing from behind parked cars.

“There she is!” These people, a random grouping of ethnicities, builds, genders, start to run toward me.

I have got to be in an alternate universe. What the hell is happening? Who the fuck are these people, how do they know my name, and why are they stampeding at me like I’m Simba’s father in the Lion King?

“Are you Dean Jacob’s latest girlfriend?”

“Did you two go to the wedding together?”

“Are you the one he’s always singing about?”

“Tell us, how big is his dick!?”

The last question makes me rear back, my brain finally clicking into place. The wedding, the flash outside the reception hall when Dean and I had been talking. The way I’d smacked him in the face. Remembering that one felt good.

But I don’t hesitate for more than a second before they’re taking my picture. Flashing in all of their greedy delight, and now I know exactly what they are. Paparazzi. Me, being stalked by paparazzi. What in the world was happening?

I run into the office, locking the back door behind me, not knowing if they’re allowed to come into the building or not. You’d think there were laws against it, but my brain isn’t processing that on all cylinders at the moment.

Brianna, one of the clinical assistants in the office, happens to see my frenzied entrance into the office as I stalk up the hallway toward the staff room.

“Girl, what the hell did you do yesterday? Who even are you?” She looks at me with a new expression on her face, as if she doesn’t even know me.

“What do you mean?” There is no way she caught that scene in the parking lot, there are no windows near the back staff entrance.

“Have you even seen all of the articles online? Not to mention news outlets have been calling here all morning. Dr. Furman threatened to cut the phone lines at one point, and you know how greedy she is for emergency patients.”

Articles? “What are you talking about?”

I shake my head like I have water in my ears, trying to make out her words in my head again. I’ve asked it now ten million times in my head, but what was going on?

“You and Dean Jacobs? How the heck did I not know that you were his high school sweetheart? The girl in all of the songs. I’d be kind of pissed at you for not disclosing all the juicy details, that is if I didn’t want those details so badly. Please tell me everything.” She props her chin on her hand, her light brown bangs fanning over her eyes.

Without even setting my things down, I race around the desk she stands in front of. Typing in one of the only gossip sites I know into the URL bar, I wait for it to load while all of the nervous butterflies converge in my stomach.

And then my heart sinks. Splashed across the front page, our picture covering every inch of the browser, are Dean and me.

After seven years, they’ve finally figured me out.

Instantly, I want to smack my ex-boyfriend in the face again.