Page 17 of Out of the Blue

At her mention of the main advertising engine for Big Rolls’ used car dealership, my blood runs cold. “No. Why would I?”

Silence reigns for a few seconds. “You know, you’re right. It was stupid of me to blab. Ignore me. I’m just getting excited to be able to go to school.” She prattles on about her schedule, and how much she’s looking forward to learning all about color and cut. Not to mention the possible job offers that await her after she graduates.

I steal a glance at the clock. TLR has about twenty more minutes onstage, so I should get to uploading their photos. “Juanita, I’m happy for you. I really hope I can find a way to get you the tuition money. I have to go now, but I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks, sis.”

I disconnect the call and post the band’s photos on Facebook and Instagram. Even upload a quick video shout out to Albany, New York on TikTok. When I finish, the band’s still playing so I collapse back into the comfy, although quite ugly, couch. How am I going to come up with five grand by next week? I’ll contact HR at Apex to find out the procedures for getting a loan. If it’s even an option. Guess I should wait until my work gains some traction for the band, though.

Assuming this effort fails, I could sell my body to a high-end bidder. Trent did fuck my brains out in a bar bathroom. Maybe he’d pay me for the privilege again? As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I shut it down. No way in fucking hell would I ever do that. No matter how bad things get, I’m not a hooker. Plus, no repeatsies.

I close my eyes and listen to the band perform for a moment. They’re quite good. Although Trent’s voice sounds tight.

Whatever. Not my problem so long as I do their social media marketing. And speaking of marketing, why did my sister bring up the stupid magazine? Curious, I pull upCars on the Parkwayonline and scroll through its pages, which are mainly ads. As I flip to the back page, wondering what Juanita was getting at, my heart freezes.

Oh. My. God.

There, on the back cover, is Big Rolls, “King of the Used Cars,” and the skank he dumped me for. She’s petite, wearing a leopard print mini dress barely covering her surgically-enhanced lily-white tits and sky-high leopard- print stilettos. Her hair’s bleached blonde, her lips are collagen-kissed, and she’s staring up at my ex-boyfriend while holding out her hand to the camera. Her left hand. Sporting a huge fucking diamond on it. Beneath the pair, the headline screams, “The King has found his Queen.”

I drop my phone and emit a keening sound. What the actual fuck is going on? He left me four months ago, ran up my credit, and now is engaged to the modelI hiredfor his marketing? This can’t be happening.

Because I’m a masochist, I pick up my phone again and stare at the photo, all the while my heart breaks into tiny little pieces. How could he do this? Hisqueen? When I analyze the picture, all I see is him, over me, shoving his puny little dick into me while crooning how much he loved me. And look where hislovegot me. Deep in debt and living with my terrible mother again.

But still.Engaged?

He put a ring on her finger. And never on me. Despite him saying he loved me. Love? Ha. What a ridiculous concept. No one ever told me they loved me and stuck around for long. I guess Big Rolls was the winner at a year. Then he kicked me out. And promptly gave the skanky model a ring before the door even shut.

I’m forever alone. And here’s proof, right before my eyes, I’m not worth anyone’s love. No one ever stays with me. Not Big Rolls. Not my father. Barely my mother.

I’m not lovable.

Water lands on my phone, and I wipe it on my shirt. I certainly don’t have any money to replace this old model. Where did the droplet come from anyway? Only then do I realize my cheeks are wet. And my nose is running. And everything in front of me is swimming in my tears.

Because TLR is still playing and I’m all alone back here, I allow myself a pity cry over the sad state of my miserable life. Cradling my cell, I rock forward and cover it with my body as tremors rack through me.

Why did he propose to her?

What was wrong with me?

Why is somethingalwayswrong with me?

Somewhere along the line, my tears no longer flow, but I don’t move. I can’t. I wallow in my misery until I realize canned music is playing rather than the band. Still, I remain immobile. I’m sort of hidden away from the main part of the room, tucked into a side alcove. No one will find me here. I shove my forehead against the ugly couch and focus on my breathing. Which stutters again as I hear echoes of Big Rolls telling me he loves me.

A palm lands on my shoulder. “Hey, are you feeling alright?”

A response to Trent’s too-kind words lodges in the back of my throat. Unable to utter a word, I shake my head.

His hand curls around my shoulder. “Is something wrong with our social media?”

He’s not concerned for me. Only about his band. I wave him away and find my voice, “No. All good.”

His hand disappears. Yup, he doesn’t care about me at all. Only what I can do for his band. Or what I did for his dick.Get it together, Cordelia.I take several deep breaths, close my eyes, and push away from the couch. Only when I sit upright and verify with my body it can hold my weight, do I open my eyes.

At that moment, Trent plops down in front of me, causing me to jump. Why is he still here? Before I can ask, he reaches over and swipes some tears off my cheek and rubs them between his fingers. In a low voice, he asks, “Want to talk about it?”

I look away from him. Pursing my lips, I will myself not to cry again. Stupid Big Rolls and his skank. I stifle a sob.

“Hey.” He brushes my back.

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