Page 167 of Swallow Your Sorries

“You can be with Gant.”

“And win theDumb Bitch of the Year award?Everyone will laugh at me.”

“They already laugh at you.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I deadpan.

“I’d do anything to be with Étienne. Even if it meant having everyone laugh at me.”

“Yeah, that’s probably because Étienne is actually worth it.”

Aria doesn’t respond because when I look over at her, she’s out cold, just like Stassi, her head resting on her outstretched hand that’s still clinging to the bottle, her blonde wig askew.

“Gant can’t be worth it.” I continue to myself. “Because then I’ll lose. And it’s all just a game. None of it is real.”

My phone lights up.

It’s a notification from Mum’s new IG account. She’s just posted a new photo. For a second, I think it’s a throwback pic. One from her teen years when she smothered her green eyes in heavy black eyeliner and her lips and nails in red. She’d fondly called it ‘whore red’, saying that’s what every person over forty called it back then. But she’d loved it. And she’d loved her fishnets, short shorts and oversized band tees. I squint at the familiarity of the logo on the front. It’s the same band from the old photo. The one in the picture of her with Jarett.

But even though the tee’s the same, the Jaime in this photo isn’t as petite. Her heavy eyeliner can’t hide her deep crow’s feet, and her hair just isn’t as teased, or as flaming red as it used to be. No, the picture’s new and for one second I begin to smile, happy that the old Jaime wasn’t lost after all, just hiding. But then I recognize the background. The bar. The same bar I’d just visited last weekend with Aria.

Jarett’s favourite bar.

The Watering Hole.

She’d been back in town. This time I was sure of it and she hadn’t come on a weekend to see me. She’d driven three hours. Twenty minutes away from Beaulieu and she hadn’t come to see me.

She’d gone to reminisce about Jarett.

Gant

I watch as my knuckles blanch whiter and whiter as I grip the headrest in front of me.

It’s not moving.

The car’s not moving.

We’re not on the road.

We’re safe. In the forest. Parked.

Breathe.

I gaze through the cracked tinted windows of Zedd’s G wagon that he keeps hidden in the forest and exhale.

Everything is fine.

We’re just sitting.

“We can get out,” Aria’s voice drifts softly into my right ear.

She’s sitting beside me, her big curly hair brushing my shoulder, her small hand gripping my knee.

“We can talk outside.”

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut to stave out the impending nausea as my vision blurs from the motion, reminding me of what the scenery would look like if we were moving.

The engine hums along, giving me all the realism I can take.

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