Page 9 of Revenge Cake

If only I had known that losing him would actually become the solution, at least temporarily, to all of my problems. Instead of panic thrumming through my limbs, I feel simmering anger. Instead of fear of abandonment, I feel the rage of injustice. I once was a dying woman, but now I’m a soldier marching into battle.

Granted, I know this feeling won’t last. Euphoria is as short-lived as the blissful feeling of peace from my Ativan.

And speaking of Ativan, I took two before bed last night. Oh, I had a list of rationalizations that all seemed completely legit before I washed those pills down my throat.

1) It had only been twelve hours since my conversation with Logan, and who was I to say this euphoric feeling wouldn’t disappear into the night, that I wouldn’t jolt awake in a gasping fit at the weight of my loss? 2) One Ativan wouldn’t be enough, not if I wanted a dead, dreamless sleep, and 3) Don’t I deserve that? My sweet, beautiful, perfect boyfriend just broke my heart, for fuck’s sake. And, finally, 4) I have a prescription, yo! Would my doctor have given it to me if I didn’t need it?

What a bullshitter I’ve become. And is there anything more pathetic than bullshitting yourself?

Also, I’m pretty sure I took three Ativan last night.

Brutal self-reflection would have decimated me twenty-four hours ago, and yet now I embrace it with such force I can hardly believe what I’m about to do. Without giving myself a chance to second guess, I rush to my dresser and yank open the top drawer. I frantically rummage through a pile of underwear until I feel the plastic tube beneath my fingers. After gripping it tightly, I jog to the bathroom.

As I stand over the toilet, I rattle the bottle, cringing slightly at the sound.

There are so many in there.

I’m frozen in hesitation, feeling like I might stand here forever staring hypnotically into the toilet water. How can I open the lid and dump out my sole source of relief and contentment?

When I took my first Ativan three months ago, I felt those magical rom-com sparks—Now I know why nothing ever felt right before. It was you I waited for. It made me the person I always wanted to be—my body relaxed, my mind sharpened. The anxious thoughts were the same but without the catastrophic effects. What once was fragile like glass became as indifferent as water.

It’s always been you. Only you.

Even then, I wasn’t an idiot. I knew it was a dangerous love. I was cautious. I only took it when I sensed a panic attack coming, which was exactly what my doctor instructed me to do. Could I help it if I had multiple panic attacks a day? And I only combined it with alcohol out of necessity. I’m a college student. It would seem peculiar if I didn’t drink at a party.

Or so I told myself.

And I almost forgot about that nearly full bottle of Xanax I swiped from my parent’s medicine cabinet on my last visit home, the one I told myself over and over again in an almost hypnotic daze that I needed more than they did. “Acute panic disorder is much more urgent than the fleeting anxiety of an infrequent flier. They probably won’t even notice it’s gone for another year.”

Oh. And I guess I also forgot about the fifteen Valium I was able to score from my family’s idiot primary care doctor in Palo Alto, when I told him I needed something to get me through mid-terms. He even gave me the strong stuff, probably the exact same prescription he’s been handing out since the mid-70s.

Those pills were heaven.

God, I’m a mess.

Suddenly, a memory is summoned. The memory of hunching over this very toilet while Logan said all of those ugly words. “You’re a fucking mess, do you know that? You seriously should win some kind of sloppy drunk girl championship ring for your performance tonight.”

A fresh wave of rage propels me into action. After twisting off the cap, I watch the pills fall in a clamoring stream into the toilet water, while only a distant part of me clenches at the sight.

I toss the empty bottle into the trash before turning slowly to the sink to stare at my reflection.

I don’t look like a femme fatale yet. I’m too wan and thin and my shoulders still hunch, but I’ll bring that golden hue back to my skin. I’ll bring back that dancer posture, those full cheeks, and barely B cup size. I’ll bring it all back by will alone.

I’ll get revenge on Logan Henderson if it’s the last thing I do. The next time we meet, he’ll see a different girl than the one who begged him not to leave her on that wretched night. The quirky, brainy, classy as fuck Leilani of the past will be back, even if I have to use black magic to resurrect her.

Only she’ll no longer be his for the taking, and if there’s one thing Logan can’t stand, it’s being told he can’t have something.

CHAPTER 4

Past—The First Non-Date

Logan

Armaan’s phone buzzes. He picks it up, swipes it, and furrows his brow while his eyes scan the screen. I clench my teeth in anticipation of what he’s about to tell me, my eyes straining to read his pensive facial expression. “She agreed to come out with us tonight,” he finally says. “But she doesn’t want you to think it’s a date.”

I exhale slowly and feel a mixture of relief and disappointment at this new development. I ought to achieve sainthood for my restraint in my pursuit of Leilani Girard since I met her three days ago, and I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit I expected a greater reward than this for my efforts. Aside from asking Armaan to get her to hang out with us, I pretty much left the ball in her court.

I’ve literally never done that before.

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