Page 127 of Things I Overshared
Your personality is anything but little.
Let’s forget about him and talk about Chase.
Emerson is so not your type . . . you need someone more like you.
How she pushed me away from Emerson and into Thomas Gage over and over . . . including the night she had to suddenly go to the bathroom, leaving me and Thomas practically lying on the couch together, just in time for Emerson to see. Did she know he was coming down? Does she text him? Do they talk? I can’t see that. I can’t see him reciprocating anything. But how much does she know about him that she never told me? Probably a shit-ton.
I stare a hole through my phone looking at the little square from just a few days ago. It’s a bar by the office, where a group photo was taken. There Emerson stands, straight and unaffected, while she hangs playfully on his arm. It’s an odd photo, but it’s a group pic of coworkers, so of course multiple people look uncomfortable.
She’s caught, though, in the snap of the lens. Even if it’s a group outing, it’s obvious. Both her hands are wrapped around his bicep, and she’s staring up at him like a sunflower lusting after the sun. I wonder what his reaction was a moment later. I wonder if he knew she wanted him all along.
I think of how she told me to run from him, to make him jealous, to play games. Emerson hates games. He is as straightforward as they come, and my pulling away was the start of our end. Not the cause, after everything, but it didn’t help. She didn’t want to help. She wanted to ruin.
Just like before Emerson, before London, she had the photos. The group photo from the gala last year. I’m sure I texted it to her with a comment about Grandpa. And then that night just days ago, when everything came to a head, all the paparazzi were calling out tome. That night was aboutme, not the Clarks. And I had texted her the selfie with Flip, the carved pirate, making our location obvious. I had sent her a photo of my necklace and gushed over its meaning.
She had it all.
And she used it.
I close Instagram and make the call, over FaceTime.
I want to look this frenemy bitch in the eye.
“Hey, babe! Finally! Are you okay? Tell me what the douchebag did!” She’s smiling wide, about to be blindsided.
“How long, Nicole?” I’m shaking and can barely breathe.
Her smile falls. “What?”
“How long have you secretly hated me?”
“Sam, what are you talking about?” Her voice gets lower, and she moves to somewhere else in her apartment.
“I know you leaked the photos. Last year and London. Just tell me if you always hated me, or if I did something that made you turn on me and my entire family.” Her face grows cold, the mask finally falling off. Chills bubble up all over my shaking limbs.
“Listen, it’s not what you think. I just needed the money and—”
“Bullshit. I could’ve loaned you money. You could’ve gotten a better job a year ago, asked for a promotion, a raise. So, what, did you get this job on purpose? To, like, sabotage my family or something? Were we ever really friends? I mean, what the hell, Nicole!”
“I’ll tell you what the hell.” Her whole face twists up in bitterness as she gets closer to her phone camera. She spits her words at me. “You’re an entitled little brat. No, it wasn’t for the money. And yes, we were friends at first—you were fun, you were a good time, but then who could stay friends with you? Everything is so easy for you, Samantha. Shallow Silly Sam who gets everything she’s ever wanted on a pretty silver platter. Your whole life is a damn cakewalk.”
“Really? So losing my mom at seventeen—was that cake too?”
“Oh, are you gonna play that card forever? Everyone has pain—get the hell over it, princess.”
“Just jealousy then. So painfully jealous, you decided to send photos to the tabloids. And then—I mean, just tell me—were you always in love with Emerson too?”
“Of course I’m fucking in love with Emerson! Who isn’t! He’s a Greek god among men, and you never even saw him! If you had, you would’ve noticed . . . I did. I noticed everything. I knew him, I saw him. And you, pretty littleMiss Canton, you never even gave him the time of day. I knew, I justknew, on this trip you’d ruin everything. You stupid little—”
I hang up, then run to the bathroom to throw up.
Sadie rushes in. “I was listening in the hall. You did way better than I would’ve. In fact, I don’t know if I would’ve bothered calling. I would’ve just sent her a big fat lawsuit.”
“No, no lawsuit. Just make sure she’s fired.”
“Done.” Sadie leaves the room with her fingers already tapping away on her phone.
Rage courses through me, and I hurl again. How? How could I not see it? So often she teased me to the point of hurting my feelings, jabbing at the parts of my personality that I was most self-conscious about.
