The very first thought that enters my mind as I watch my boyfriend kissing my best friend is:
You chose wrong.
Not the wrong boyfriend. And not even the wrong best friend.
But the wrong life.
I must make some kind of noise and it probably sounds something like a mouse being electrocuted because suddenly they’re not kissing anymore. They’re looking at me. And I’m looking at them and the TV is still going and an announcer kicks off the beginning of a new episode by yodeling, “How Is This My Life?”
And I think, Yes, exactly.
How is this my life?
This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be at the Windsor Academy. I’m supposed to be with CoyCoy55 and Luce_the_Goose. We’re all supposed to be studying together in the student union or touring art museums or something.
Instead, I’m standing here like an idiot and they’re sitting there like idiots and no one is sure which idiot should talk first. It’s like one of those lame standoffs in an action flick when the cop and the bad guy are both pointing guns at each other and they’re saying things like “I know what you did” and “I’m going to blow your brains out” and “You’ll never get away with this” and “Just watch me.”
I never understood those scenes. I always thought, Why doesn’t someone freaking shoot already and put an end to this?
But now, I’m suddenly gaining a new appreciation for that particular type of stalemate. If I shoot first—if I speak or cry or yell—there’s a chance they’ll immediately shoot back. And then it’ll hurt more. And we’ll all be dead.
So I do what no cop has ever done in the history of action movies. I drop my weapon and just start running.
I can hear a single pair of footsteps following after me. I can’t tell whom they belong to. Who was sent as the envoy? Who cares enough to follow me? My stupid makes-obnoxious-sounds-with-his-teeth, likes-cheap-fart-jokes boyfriend? Or my stupid laughs-like-a-chipmunk, coffee-breath best friend?
The coffee breath.
Holy crap, it was right in front of me and I didn’t even see it.
That’s why Laney was acting so strange today in the newspaper office.
They didn’t just both go to Peabody’s this morning. They went together.
Which means, this kiss might not be the first.
Looks like I’m the bigger idiot, after all. Although I guess I already knew that. I made the decision that got me here, didn’t I? I’m the one who chose this life.
“Kennedy! Wait!” the footsteps speak. And the voice belongs to Laney. I should have known she’d be the one to come after me.
Somewhere deep inside, I find the strength to stop. To turn around and face her. To ask the one question I know will haunt me forever if I don’t ask.
“How long?” I demand.
She stops, too, keeping a safe distance. “We never wanted to hurt you,” she whimpers. It’s a foreign sound coming from her. Like she’s on the verge of tears. But Laney never cries. She’s too strong. She’s the rock in the friendship and rocks don’t cry. “I never wanted to hurt you,” she amends.
“How long?” I repeat through clenched teeth.
Laney stares into my eyes for a long moment. She bravely holds my gaze even though her face is tormented. Then, when she can’t hold on any longer, she drops her head and whispers, “Three months.”
And then I’m running again. And Laney is calling after me again. But I don’t stop this time. I don’t want to hear her pitiful explanations and empty apologies.
I get in my car, start the engine, and throw the gearshift into Drive. As I peel away from the curb, my headlights just barely catch Laney’s silhouette on the sidewalk. Her body is slumped in surrender. Her hands are covering her eyes. Like she’s actually crying.
Like she has any right to cry.
A moment later, my phone starts exploding with texts. I pull it out of my bag and shut off the ringer. I won’t read them. Because I don’t care what they say. I don’t care about anything Laney has to say ever again. Or Austin for that matter.
Although strangely enough, it’s not the Austin part that hurts the most. It’s the Laney part. Austin’s betrayal just feels like a sunburn on top of a massive gouge in my arm. It stings, it’s uncomfortable, but it’s overshadowed by this bleeding, oozing, festering wound underneath.
She’s my best friend. My partner in crime. My news editor.
Why would she do this?
As I turn into my subdivision, a beam from one of the streetlamps bounces off something sparkling inside my car. I look down to see the glittery pink phone charger that’s plugged into the center console.
The gag gift from Laney.
Because she knows how much I hate pink things that sparkle. I hate that marketers just expect girls to buy stuff because they make it in a glittery color. Like we’re nothing more than moths attracted to shiny things. I even wrote a piece about it in the Southwest Star.
I slam on the brakes and the car lurches to a halt. With my heart still pounding and my inhales and exhales sounding like I’m breathing through a scuba mask, I yank out the charger, roll down the window, and chuck it as far as I can. Which admittedly isn’t very far because I’m not that good at throwing stuff and the wind catches the cord and nearly blows it back in my face. Now it’s lying on the ground in the middle of the street. The pink glitter flashing in the streetlights.
No, I think. Not good enough.
I throw the car in Reverse and back up. Then I floor the gas pedal and race forward until I hear the satisfying crunch under my tires.
Then I back up and do it again. And again. And again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until the crunching sound subsides and there’s nothing but dust left and the stupid thing finally stops sparkling.