Page 37 of Going Viral for Christmas
Disaster or not, I’m done being a coward. Ava Bell terrifies me, and electrifies me in ways I don’t know how to contain, but I want her anyway. Her brilliant mind, stubborn fire, and silences that say more than a hundred interviews ever could.
So let this thing crash and burn. Let it be messy. I’ll still walk through the ashes with her, because it’s the only place I want to be.
Seven
AVA
The gym smells like overused disinfectant, synthetic citrus, and a type of sterile clean that never quite lets you forget where you are. Which is, and always will be, a germy gym, despite its five-star status.
It’s barely six a.m., and my anxiety got me out of bed faster than any alarm could. I told myself movement would help clear my head. Burn off the leftover humiliation still stewing in my bloodstream after last night’s encounter with Soren.
So far, the only thing I’ve managed to burn are the muscles in my inner thighs from the world’s most vindictive treadmill.
I should’ve gone for a walk outside. Got some fresh air. But no. I opted for pain and torture instead, because I’m a rational adult with control issues.
I’m gripping the handles so tightly my knuckles ache, and tension coils from my shoulders down to my fingertips. Each step is a desperate attempt to outrun the anxiety gnawing at my brainstem.
My playlist says:Power Mode.
My head says:Panic Spiral.
And my legs say:screw you, Ava Bellin Morse code made of lactic acid.
My phone buzzes with a notification. Then another. Then seven more.
Fumbling to check it mid-stride on the treadmill, I nearly face-plant into the emergency stop bar. Graceful, I am not.
Emily Lawson. Best friend, extraordinaire.
BELL.
WHY AM I LEARNING ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE ON THE INTERNET??
#BellAndTheBlade?
What the actual hell is happening?
I thought you hated that guy?!
Pictures of you two are everywhere!
Damn girl, I leave you alone for ONE minute and you go full fantasy porno?
Wait, are you two fucking?
Groaning, I jab at the incline, slow down, then snatch my phone to text her back.
Emily has been my best friend since undergrad at Amherst—back when we were both broke, brilliant, and stubborn enough to believe we could change the world through fiction. She’s the calm to my chaos, the steady voice that talked me off ledges I didn’t even know I was standing on.
When things were bad withI Hate Your Face, she was the one who saw through the highlight reel. While I was crumbling, she stayed—quiet, patient, unflinching, anchoring me back to myself every single time I forgot who that was.
Emily took a professor gig at Seattle Pacific University, and plans to finally finish her manuscript there.
I haven’t told her about this whole fake dating Soren Pembrydebacle yet. Obviously. Which is why I almost crashed out on the treadmill the second my phone buzzes with her name.
Can I plead temporary insanity?
I was tricked. There were cocktails.
