Page 110 of The Book Club Boyfriend
Chase stands there on the sidewalk, helpless.
“Scarlett—please don’t go like this.”
I meet his eyes through the window.
“I already did.”
The door shuts. The cab pulls away.
And I don’t look back.
***
The hotel room is too nice for how miserable I feel.
Fluffy white duvet, marble bathroom, blackout curtains drawn tight. A tray of untouched room service sits on the table—something that was supposed to pass as dinner last night but ended up just being a sad reminder that I can’t eat around a lump in my throat.
I haven’t slept. Not really.
Ispent most of the night curled in bed, knees to my chest, flipping between being furious and being wrecked and then hating myself for feeling either. My laptop’s been open for hours, the screen glowing softly beside me in the tangle of sheets.
Strangely, I’m still able to write—with even more raw emotion than before.
My headphones are on, volume up so high it practically vibrates my skull—something angry and female—Billie Eilish? Ashe, maybe? I don’t even remember adding them to my playlist, but they’re perfect. Loud, raw, unapologetic.
I type and delete and retype the same scene over and over, tears dripping down my cheeks like my body’s leaking feelings I don’t know what to do with. I’ve ignored every call and text from Chase. Watched his name light up my screen over and over until I finally flipped my phone facedown and shoved it under a pillow.
Only one message gets through.
Lucy:hey. please just tell me you’re alive so I don’t stage a manhunt.
I wait five minutes. Then ten. Then sigh, grab the phone, and type out a response. Iamin the middle of New York City. I don’t want them to think I got lost or kidnapped.
Me:Alive. Just not in the mood to be someone’s bet tonight.
Idon’t send anything else. When she replies with a string of heart emojis and a “let me know if you need anything,” I shut the phone off completely. I don’t need people trying to fix it. I don’t even know whatitis yet.
The team has a game tonight, and I said I’d be there.
But instead, I’m in an oversized hoodie and yesterday’s eyeliner, curled on the hotel bed with a blanket over my head like a haunted little gremlin.
I flick the TV on.
The Stampede game is already in the second period.
And Chase… looks awful.
He’s missing passes he usually nails in his sleep. Skating like his legs are made of wet sand. One of his shots sails so far wide it actually makes the announcer pause.
He’s playing like shit.
Something curls low in my chest, hot and aching. I wrap the blanket tighter around me.
Good, I think at first. Let him feel like garbage too.
But then I watch him get slammed into the boards, and all that righteous fury flickers into something softer. Something worse.
Because for all the hurt, for all the betrayal… I still care.
