Page 25 of Worth the Scandal
I close my eyes and try to will her out of my head.
But all I see is that night. The way she laughed like she didn’t care, then cried like she cared too much. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I could be something else—someone else.
And I fucked it.
I could’ve asked for her name. Could’ve stayed. Could’ve tried. But I was moving. Dad hadn’t spoken to me; mum could barely look at me. I was barely holding my life together. And I couldn’t risk dragging her into the mess.
Now she’s here.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
Or the fact that one emoji just ignited every part of me I thought I’d buried.
I reach for my phone again. Start to type out another message.
You always fire emoji your enemies or just the ones you’ve seen naked?
Delete.
So, I’ve got your attention, but not your words?
Delete.
You good?
God. Lame.
I toss the phone again, face down this time. I am not about to double-text a girl who once made a no-names rule and then ghosted like a damn ninja after the best night of my life in a very long time.
Let her come to me.
Let her remember.
Let her wonder if I’m thinking about her too.
Newsflash, Scarlett: I am.
I grab the nearest pillow and pull it over my face, groaning into the silence.
She’s going to be the death of me.
And I’m already kind of okay with that.
* * *
It’s almost 1AM. Insomnia is one of my trauma side effects—well that’s what my shrink tells me.
The world’s asleep. Except me. And the glow of my screen. And the pit in my stomach that won’t quit.
I should’ve turned my phone off an hour ago. Should’ve taken the damn melatonin and gone to bed like a normal human. Instead, here I am—deep into the Instagram time warp.
Scarlett Walker’s profile. I told myself I’d only look. But now I’m six months deep. Photos from work events. Her grinning beside NRL stars I actually know. Her in a power suit holding a trophy I didn’t know existed but now want to win. Her at the funeral, black dress, red-rimmed eyes, a hundred comments of condolence beneath it. And then I hit the older ones—back when she still lived in Sydney.
There it is.
The Party.
The night.
