Page 88 of The Lovers
Coco’s response is lost in the whir of blood rushing past my ears, the spinning dervish of my thoughts as I think back over the events of the evening. Before we danced, Julia’s expression was pained. Her makeup muted. Her mascara-tinged lower lashes smudged. Could she have had an argument with Piper while I was distracted working? She told me Piper was vindictive; she told me she always gets what she wants. I know Piper wanted her back—her reading all but confirmed that for me.
“I have to get out of here,” I say, gathering up my tarot deck. The cards spray out in my haste, dropping from my grip and falling all around the table. I frantically grab them up, while Coco tries to assist.
“We need to let Julia know,” she says. “I think she’d want to help.”
My eyes fly to hers. “And risk blowing up this wedding? No.” I shove the cards in my bag and yank up my phone. Piper’sidealis me running scared and Julia broken, back in her arms. She knows about our history and she knows me bailing will trigger Julia’s insecurity about what happened when we were teenagers. I know that no matter what I say, Julia will try to stop me from leaving.
But I have to get to my parents before they see this. If that’s even possible.
I have to at least try to tell them on my own terms.
My heart slams rapidly, pumping me up with confidence, not sending me flying with fear.
I have to face this head-on.
“Going somewhere?” Piper asks as I near her. She takes a generous sip from her champagne flute.
“You know this is the kind of behavior you can get canceled for?”
“Like I care about a few snowflakes on the internet calling for my blood,” she replies with a sneer. “Besides, they couldn’t prove it was me.”
I’m not dumb enough to engage her anymore. I swipe a champagne flute from a passing tray, lifting it toward her as if in cheers. Her brow rises.
I aim for her face and shoot.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Julia
A piercing shriek from the other side of the reception area pulls me out of my conversation with Zoe. I turn around just in time to see the back of Kit’s head walking away from a champagne-drenched Piper.
The shrieker.
My first thought is that Piper is taking a shot at Kit now that she can’t get to me. My second thought is that Kit might think this is too much drama, and instead of dealing with it head-on, she’ll run away. But that doesn’t feel right, not now, not after everything we’ve been through this weekend. I’m stepping away from Zoe midexplanation of the end-of-event checklist when she clamps her hand around my forearm to stop me.
“You should see this,” she says, handing over her phone.
It takes me a second to figure out what I’m looking at because it doesn’t make logical sense in my brain. It shouldn’t exist and it damn well shouldn’t be on TikTok. It’s a video of Kit and me dancing, kissing, twirling, and whoever posted it has cut themselves in reacting with a heart eyes filter.
“I don’t get it,” I say, trying to process it and failing. “How is this here?”
“The Mystic Maven hashtag has over a million followers. That’s how it’s spreading so fast—whoever uploaded this used it to get the attention of her following.” Zoe looks practically ill as she relays this information. “From what I can tell, this is not the original video. That one went up maybe fifteen minutes ago, while you two were still dancing.”
“This is outing her.” I feel sick saying it out loud.
Zoe nods, solemn, and then swipes around until she gets to the original video, which was posted from an anonymous account. The same kind of profile picture–free, nonsensical handle type of account that Piper uses to stalk and lurk and fuck around with people she hates.
Rapidly, details drop into place with clarity.
After I shut her down, promising once and for all there was no hope of reconciling, Piper had nothing to lose. She filmed us dancing. She uploaded it. She got revenge.
She wants to drive Kit away. Even if it won’t get me back.
She wants to make her suffer, out Kit in this horribly public way she did not consent to, simply because Piper can’t stand losing.
I cross the dance floor in a fugue state of rage.
My fingernails dig into my palms but the pain only adds urgency to my movements. It’s impossible to keep a lid on my anger even though I know that I should. Blowing up at Piper—a member of the wedding party and close personal friend of the bride—will surely have consequences. But I really don’t care. I’m sick of keeping my cool just so I can be some perfect version of a professional woman.
