Page 59 of Repairing the Wreckage

“Like what?”

“Not your concern.”

“The fuck it isn’t.”

“It’s really not.” He glances over. “You weren’t here.”

He’s going to throw that in my face forever. “Remy.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” He turns into the parking lot of the large medical complex, glances at a large board of signs and makes a right turn. “I’m glad you’re home. But more than your face and body got fucked up by that show.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” I grumble.

He pulls into a spot next to Building A. “Sign says it’s in there.”

Glad one of us was paying attention.

“You want me to go in with you?” he asks.

“Not really.” I draw a lazy circle in the air with one finger. “This has all been humiliating enough.”

He hums a thoughtful noise. “I wish they hadn’t made it so…personal. Gone after Molly the way they did.”

Guess that’s his way of telling me he’d have more compassion for my situation if the producers hadn’t fucked with his sister. “You and me both, brother.”

The door squeaks as I open it. Gonna have to take a look at that soon.

In the waiting room, the receptionist points me to a chair and hands me a stack of forms to fill out. “People still do this on paper?” I lift an eyebrow.

She scowls at me. “Just fill it out. Payment has already been arranged but we need your signature on those forms.”

At least Jordan did what he said he’d do. I’d half expected the producers to fuck me over and get handed a massive bill at the end of this appointment.

After filling out the forms and handing them back to the receptionist, she again tells me to take a seat. I park my ass in the corner and pull out my phone.

None of my texts to Molly have gone through.

I check her social media next. She’s never been into it much, but she has an Instagram account.

That I’m no longer able to see.

This account is private.

What the fuck? Her profile picture used to be one of us from prom night. Now, it’s her face turned to the side, chin up like she’s looking at the sky but most of her features hidden by her hair or obscured by some filter. But I know my girl. It’s definitely her.

Did she lock down her account to hide from me? Or because people who were watching the show harassed her?

I check my own account. Diane had “curated” it when I first arrived at the house. As far as I can tell, all that meant is she posted a series of obnoxious shirtless thirst traps of me from different events at the house. It worked, though. Each one has thousands of likes and comments. I’m not even going to bother reading all that shit. How fucking embarrassing.

Any photos I’d posted before the show Diane must have set to private. That’s probably for the best. My bio still says “in a relationship.” Gee, surprised Diane didn’t change that too while she was busy fucking up my life. I navigate my way through the settings and change my password. Not that it probably matters. Those fucks had my phone for so long, they could’ve put God only knows what spyware on it. Maybe I should have Remy take me to get a new phone while we’re out.

“Griffin,” a nurse calls out.

It takes a second to realize she means me. Almost no one ever calls me that. I stand and shove my phone in my pocket.

I hope this isn’t gonna take all day.

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