Page 203 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I told him we hadn’t heard from you in a few weeks and he just flipped his shit.

The conflicting emotions in my chest fight for dominance.

He knew I wouldn’t answer him after what happened, but finding out I wasn’t answering others sent him spiraling.

Good.

I hope he drove himself mad with worry.

He owes me five years of misery.

The girls and I dedicate the next hour to catching up and filling each other in on what we’ve been up to in the past month—of course, I don’t tell them about Kane’s betrayal and the fact that I’ve been crying myself to sleep every night.

Shit, I’ve missed them.

I’m realizing now that isolating myself has done nothing but drag me deeper into depression. I told myself I couldn’t tell anyone what I know yet, but that doesn’t mean I have to push everyone away.

I drop onto the two-seater couch in my dorm a few hours later. I’ve showered, brushed my teeth and my hair, not to mention made myself a real meal. Safe to say this is one of the best days I’ve had in a long time.

As though I’m on a mission to ruin my own progress, I grab my phone and pull up the internet.

My fingers type out Kane’s name in the search bar before I can come to my senses.

As I predicted, every article is about how the trial will be broadcasted online two weeks from now. My stomach twists as I scroll through the comments below the article, each of them stating how excited they are for it.

Jesus, they’re talking about it like it’s reality TV.

The third article catches my attention.

Kane Wilder opens up about his struggles with alcohol.

I click the link and begin to read.

This is the only interview he’s done since he left the beach house. I’m guessing his management wants him to stay out of the public eye until the trial as a way to ensure he won’t accidentally do something to make shit worse.

In the interview, he talks about how he’s been sober for a few months. It’s basically just a bunch of “I’m a changed man” talk, which I’m sure has to do with his team wanting to salvage his image.

Good to know he hasn’t relapsed, though.

I’m about to scold myself for still giving a shit about his well-being when the door to the dorm swings open.

Maggie and her new boyfriend burst into the room, their smiles making me cringe.

I so don’t need this right now. I know it probably makes me sound bitter, but the last thing I want is to see Maggie make out with some frat guy while I’m heartbroken.

I managed to keep her in the dark about my disastrous love life up until now. She stayed with her man at the party house where he lives most of last week, and when she did come home, I was usually in class or asleep.

Something tells me I won’t be able to hide much longer.

Maggie takes one look at my face and stops dead in her tracks.

Worry creeps into her gaze. “You look horrible.”

I force a smile. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, no, I just mean… you look… not okay.” She tries to lessen the blow, but I don’t take offense to her comment. She’s right. I look like shit. I squeezed a crying session in the middle of my shower, and my face is still puffy.

Maggie doesn’t await my response, spinning on her heels and telling her flavor of the week, “Babe, I know we were supposed to hang out tonight, but would you mind if we rescheduled?”

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