Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I can’t even think about the family I’ve left behind, who were already torn open by life and have now been served up for public consumption and humiliation because of me.
Loving isn’t wrong—reaching out to hold someone’s hand, choosing to care for someone, fiercely and gently, like you care for yourself—but Rianna made it sound terrible.
I’m weighed down by my life and the emptiness of it, crushed under the heel of consequences I don’t deserve to face. I tell myself that all I need to do is let the dust settle. I’ll wake up tomorrow with a clearer head, and I’ll be able to work out what to do. But it’s a lie.
I’m hiding.
From their anger.
From their heartbreak.
From the part of me that doesn’t want to believe I might have lost something I never believed could be mine.
Conway’s voice barrels through my mind, steady and cold, telling me to go.
God, I should’ve fought harder, explained better. I should never have trusted my notes to my cloud drive or trusted Rianna with anything personal. I’ve spent my whole adult life dealing in sensationalism. I should have known better.
But what has it cost me?
The trust I had in my work colleagues. The belief I had about my role at Fine Line Magazine. The faith and hope those good men placed in me.
Their love, my mind whispers. It cost you their love.
I shake my head. I never had it. They didn’t know the real me. They were lonely and in need of female company, and I was convenient. That’s all. That’s always been my role. The stand-in. The layover. I’m the person people walk away from: my dad, my friends, men who spin through the revolving door of my life. Even my mom filled the house with other people’s kids, like I wasn’t enough.
It’s best this way. What would be the point of pretending to myself any longer that I could fit in their world and they’d want to keep me? At least this way, I can nurse my heart and move on, and those good men and those sweet children can find the life they want with a better woman than me.
I look out the window, watching people go about their day like the world hasn’t shifted. Like I’m not unraveling, inch by inch.
Tomorrow, I’ll open the messages. I’ll read the comments. I’ll figure out what life looks like from here.
But I can’t face it today.
I’m going to hold this cold coffee and let my heart beat too fast, and tears streak mascara down my cheeks, and I’m going to wait out the pain.
There’s a knock at the door, which drags my attention from the window. I don’t move at first, assuming it’s a neighbor or a delivery I forgot I ordered, but then it comes again, and it’s firmer this time. Intentional and demanding. A knock that means business.
I set the cold coffee on the sill, slide off the chair, and pad barefoot to the door, my chest already tight.
When I open it, Allie pushes inside before I can speak.
She’s dressed in joggers and an oversized sweatshirt, hair up in a claw clip, face flushed from the wind or the stairs. She doesn’t bother with hello.
“Allie?”
“Grace,” she says, voice clipped and urgent. “Have you seen it?”
“Seen what?”
She drops her purse on the counter and fishes out her phone. “God. You haven’t looked at anything, have you? Twitter? TikTok? Jesus, Grace…”
I shake my head, remembering when I uttered those same words to Allie when everything in her life hit rock bottom. “I haven’t. I didn’t want to…”
She closes her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples like she’s trying to prevent her skull from exploding. “You need to sit down.”
The words land hard, so I don’t argue. I drift back to the chair by the window. The phone I’ve been ignoring still sits face down beside me. “Why?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she perches on the windowsill, reaches over, picks up my phone, hands it to me to unlock, and opens a browser window. Her fingers type a few characters, and then she turns the screen toward me.
#gracecanride
I stare at it.
At first, it doesn’t register. It’s a stupid hashtag with my name in it.
Then the page loads to reveal video after video.
Some are blurry. Some sharp. Faces I almost remember from bar bathrooms, Tinder matches, and half-forgotten flings. Some I don’t remember at all. All men, smirking and casual. So fucking confident in their cruelty.
“I hooked up with Grace back in… what was it, February? Yeah. She can ride, all right. City girl who left me limping for a week. I’d join a cowboy cult if it meant a second round. No strings attached.”
“Ten outta ten at showing a dick a good time. I’d visit a poly ranch if she’s part of the hospitality package. Not a keeper, but worth a ride. She knows what to do with her hips.”