Page 88 of Set on You

“Crys, I—”

I stop him, placing my hand over his. “I will handle this myself. Trust me.”

•••

TARA CLOSES HERpaperback abruptly and lets out a heavy sigh beside me on the couch. “Do you remember what you said to me the second week after I came to stay with you?”

“Uh, to stop leaving your Pop-Tart crumbs all over my kitchen counters or I wouldn’t cook for you anymore?” I mutter, cheek pressed into the arm of the couch at an awkward angle. I’ve been lying in this exact position since I woke up this morning. There might as well be a chalk outline surrounding my lifeless body.

“Besides that.” Tara shifts to the edge of the couch, knee bouncing, eager to enlighten me. “You told me to wash my face and at least pretend to have my shit together.”

I can’t help but snort at the grim memory. “And you whipped a book at me.”

She tightens her grip on the book. “Damn right. You were being a hard-ass. But you know what? It helped. I felt a thousand times better. So if I can stop moping over my fiancé dumping me and my whole future being flushed down the toilet, you can snap out of this. You’re acting like a brooding man-child from one of my romance novels. It’s not a good look. You’ve gotta let it all out.”

I flash her the stink eye, silently willing her to leave me alone. She doesn’t.

This is one of many glaring differences between us. With anygiven problem, she airs her woes to everyone and anyone within her general vicinity, like the poor, confused technician at the pharmacy a block from my apartment. The more people and opinions, the better (not that she actually takes anyone’s advice).

I’ve never been one to rely on others when I’m upset. For some reason, I prefer to suffer in bleak solitude. I’m basically the Grinch (the Jim Carrey version), dwelling in his lair, monologuing excessively, and loathing all that is good in the world.

It’s been a day since Scott left, albeit reluctantly. If I’m being honest, my stomach bottomed out the moment he walked out the door. But the shock of having gone viral, combined with his I-must-fix-you attitude, was overwhelming, almost suffocating.

Being alone with my thoughts, however terrifying, reenergizes me and clears my head, which is exactly what I need to strategize my response to the situation. I can’t ghost my Instagram forever.

Unfortunately, literal silence to think is hard to come by. Tara has been blasting “Rumors” by Lindsay Lohan on repeat. She’s deemed it my new theme song, and it’s both tragically and embarrassingly appropriate. The bop is a classic, but I’m getting a little unnerved.

I’m about to text Scott to check in and thank him for giving me the space I need when Tara shrieks, pausing Lindsay right when she’s asking why people can’t just let her live.

“What?” I ask.

“Did you see what Scott commented?”

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. Scott never uses Instagram, aside from liking all my photos when we first met. “What? No.”

Tara hands me her phone, eyes wider than dinner plates. “You’re not gonna like this.”

chapter thirty

Comment byCJS_49er: There’s no way this guy is with her for anything but her money and fame lol. Why would a guy who looks like that settle? He’s definitely cheating!

Reply byRitchie_Scotty7:@CJS_49erYou’re pathetic and you should be ashamed. Crystal is beautiful, inside and out. I feel sorry for anyone who doesn’t see that. She’s the kind of person who would give the shirt off her back for a stranger and has dedicated her life to helping others. Do us all a favor and get a fucking life. Put your hatred and ignorance toward something useful for a change.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I hiss.

Scott looks a little frazzled as he steps aside to let me in, and Idon’t blame him. I’ve shown up at his apartment out of the blue, practically fuming. Admittedly, it’s difficult to maintain any level of outrage when Albus Doodledore is galloping around the living area like a tiny horse, euphoric about my arrival. His tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth as he nibbles my fingers.

I clench my fists, shielding my fingers from Albus, which automatically resets my headspace. The simple act reminds me why I’m here, reigniting the fury pulsing through my veins. If I were an animated character, steam would be billowing out of my ears.

“I can explain.” He watches as I pace the length of the IKEA coffee table in front of the couch, Albus following nobly at my feet, thirsting for me to toss the slobbery stuffed gibbon he’s dropped on my foot.

“Scott, I made it clear I didn’t need backup. That I wanted to handle this myself. And you went behind my back and responded to a bunch of comments. You did exactly what I told you not to do. You’ve swooped in, trying to be a hero I don’t need. You’ve stolen my opportunity to strategize. To regroup. To address the entire situation in my own way. And now I look like some broken damsel in distress who requires rescue and validation by her big, strong boyfriend.”

He swallows, head hanging in regret, like a small child in trouble with the principal. “I’ll delete them.”

My irritation flares. “It’s way too late for that.”

The comments were only posted two hours ago, and already, BuzzFeed News has written a follow-up article, titledSix-pack boyfriend of full-figured fitness influencer speaks out, loves her curves.It paints me in an even more pathetic light than the first.

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