Page 96 of Romance Is Dead

For a moment, he paused—his mouth half open as his mind recalibrated. “How do you know about that?”

“Answer the question.”

“Yeah, but how did—”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t give me all this crap about how much I mean to you when you were planning to go make out with whichever girl those producers tell you to as soon as the movie wraps.” I turned to leave, not wanting to hear whatever bullshit excuse he was going to come up with next.

He reached out for my arm, grabbing me lightly by the elbow. “Hang on. Quinn, you’ve been the one telling me from day one that you don’t want a relationship. Forgive me for not immediately backing out of a contract for a girl that obviously doesn’t want me.”

I yanked my arm away. “It doesn’t matter! You want to be famous and will do anything to get it. This movie wasn’t enough, your reality shows weren’t enough, so now you decided to sell me out, for what? How much money did they pay you?”

“Nothing, because it wasn’t me,” Teddy said, his teeth gritted. “I don’t know what else to say. Apparently, I’ve done nothing to earn your trust.”

“Apparently.”

“Please don’t do this. Please listen to me.”

“What did you say an hour ago? That you’re not going anywhere until I want you to? Well.” I reached for the doorknob. “That’s now. I want you to leave me alone.”

And then, without waiting for a reply, I spun around and marched out of the room.

Chapter Thirty-one

Still fuming, I stormed to my room.

My throat was cramping and my eyes burning, unmistakable signs that if I let them, tears would spill over and I’d be crying harder than Florence Pugh in theMidsommarposter. And I wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen. Teddy might not be there to witness me falling apart, but I was. I’d have to admit that I’d been foolish enough to get my heart broken by someone I’d known all along wasn’t fit to be trusted. And I wasn’t ready to face that.

So instead, I channeled my rage into pushing the desk in front of the door. I only planned to be in my room for a half hour max, but with a killer out there with a key to my room, I wasn’t taking any chances. I grabbed my phone and tapped out a text, letting my dad know I’d be at his place in a few hours. Then I yanked my suitcase out of the closet and started chucking in my belongings, made easier by the fact that everything was spilled onto the floor.

Scooping up clothes and balls of yarn, I started to laugh. This movie was supposed to be my horror send-off, a way for me to say goodbye to my fans and get some extra money while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. Now it was canceled, I was in the crosshairs of a killer, and the whole world would know I’d been played by Hollywood’s biggest fuck boy. He’d seemed so genuine, so genuinely good, so genuinely into me. Had it all been a lie? The stories about his brother, his mother? His father? Had it all been a ploy to gain my sympathies and build this fake relationship he could milk for publicity?

The worst part of it was that I had been genuine. My feelings had been real—they were real—and I’d been foolish enough to tell him.

Doing a final sweep of the room, I did a mental inventory of my things, trying to decipher if the intruder had taken anything. So far, everything had been accounted for. But as I zipped up my luggage, it finally clicked. The only thing that was missing was Jacques, my stuffed raven. This—realizing I’d lost the only relic from my career that meant anything to me—was finally enough to make me break down into tears. I sank onto the bed, letting my body heave with it, not caring who might hear me, hoping that if I cried long enough, the poison would seep out and it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

A knock pounded at the door.

I jumped, my heart hammering. I wiped my tears and grabbed a lamp to use as a makeshift weapon before creeping to the door. It was already unplugged and lying on the floor anyway. Moving the desk out of the way and opening the door, I swung back the heavy brass base. The shade flopped unceremoniously to the carpet.

But when I swung open the door, there was no one there, just a package wrapped in brown paper and waiting on the carpet. Leaving the lamp in the hall, I took the package into my room, my insides sinking. Sure enough, when I peeled away the paper, it was Teddy’s picture frame, still unfinished. Instead of a photo, it displayed a note—the handwriting messy and cramped:

Quinn,

I made this for you, so it’s your choice whether to keep it or not. It was meant to hold the photo of us, but I figured that wasn’t a good idea. There’s only the one.

I’ll miss our rehearsals.

—Teddy

Staring at the frame, my throat thickened. Teddy could have thrown it in the trash, or taken it with him to keep for himself. But he didn’t. He’d wrapped it and written me a note and left it for me.

It was too much. I needed to get out of there. Stuffing the frame under my arm and grabbing my luggage, I ran out the door.

My dad was trimming a branch in a pot when I arrived at the cabin.

Not a branch that was attached to a tree.

Not even a branch that was attached to a shrub.

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