Page 137 of Hawaii Can Suck It

“Processing… Processing… Video posted successfully!” I say out loud.

The confirmation appears, and I power down my laptop before shoving it into my carry-on.

I glance at the departures board—one hour and twelve minutes until my flight whisks me away from this paradise-turned-hellscape.

I grab my phone, opening the YouTube app to check how many views the video has already gotten. Instead, I’m bombarded with alerts, thumbnails, and recommended videos—digitalwantedposters with my face plastered across them.

Justice For Reece: Why #CancelCamila Is Trending Worldwide.

Reece’s Face When He Found Out The Truth About Cam (Heartbreaking).

10 Times Camila Morales Was Shady—Red Flags We Missed!

YouTubers React: Camila’s Shocking Betrayal of Reece Dare.

The Hawaii Con: Camila’s Master Plan That Made Her the Internet’s Most Hated.

Why We’ll NEVER Forgive Camila Morales (And Neither Should Reece).

¡Ay, Dios! This is so much worse than I imagined. And it’s blowing up so fast. I close the app, my stomach twisting painfully as if I swallowed barbed wire. The endless flood of notifications are aseries of tiny, electrical shocks stinging my already bruised heart.

PING! PING! PING!

More notifications.

I don’t want to stay in Los Angeles. I can’t.

LA is Reece’s kingdom. His adoring fans fill every coffee shop, every grocery store, every sidewalk—too many memories, too many places where we filmed together.

I can’t live with reminders of him… of what I had… and of how I lost it.

I will not live under judgment from his fans, their sideways glances, their whispered hateful comments as I walk by. Reece has been in the public eye for years. He’s strong enough to weather that kind of storm, but I’m not.

This is why I always chose to stay behind the camera. No one picks you apart if they don’t know you exist. No one cares what you wear or who you sleep with.

But now? I’m the villain in a story being told by millions of people who have never even met me.

I need to disappear. I need a shoulder to lean on. I need my sister.

Aria, with her tiny New York apartment and her food truck and her complete detachment from YouTube drama. Aria, who once told a catcaller to “Go fuck a blender” without breaking stride. Aria, who—like Petra—would burn down the world for me no questions asked.

I send off a quick text.

Me:Can I come stay with you for a while?

Aria:Of course. My couch is always yours. But what’s wrong? You ok?

Me:No. I’ll explain when I get there. I gotta pack up some stuff, but I’ll be on the red eye to New York tonight.

I turn off my phone, unable to handle another notification, another message, another fucking reminder of what a spectacularly shitty person I am.

I want to unplug. To forget the headlines, the hate, the people who think they know me. To sink into the only place I still feel whole—his memory.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

REECE

Shell-ShockinglyGoodinBedis splashed across my chest in blinding neon green, along with two turtles mid-hump like no one’s watching. Their goofy little turtle mouths curved up in pure bliss. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and shake my head.When did I become such a fucking masochist?

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