Page 9 of The Love Haters

I was as excited as anyone, at first. Lucas and I sat in that fancy restaurant until closing time, hunched over his phone, our brand-new engagement fully forgotten as we watched the numbers climb and witnessed himmaking it bigin real time—meeting eyes over and over in astonishment, likeCan this be happening?

Next, Lucas had talent coaches reaching out and sponsorship offers with agencies—and his whole life just changed.

Inweeks.

Some folks who make it big on TikTok only have one song—or, honestly, just seventeen seconds of a song. Some of them don’t even know how to sing at all—have never even been in a recording studio. I read an article with one manager describing a guy with millions of fans—who couldn’t even keep time. She flew all the way to New Jersey to sign him… and then she left empty-handed.

But Lucas was the real deal. He’d been writing songs since middleschool, and he played pianoandguitarandharmonica, and he had a whole backlog of songs he could release, one right after the other. When his big chance came—he grabbed it with both hands.

I was happy for him. Iwas.

But it wasn’t exactly a journey I could go onwith him. I was working full time at the University of North Texas back then, in their advancement department, making fundraising videos. I couldn’t suddenly just abandon my standard forty-hour workweek, pack up, and take off like a roadie. I was an adult.

Lucas hit the road alone, playing clubs and filming more videos, and then he got invited to open for the Jonas Brothers on tour, and then he was just… gone all the time. I saw more of him on my phone than in real life.

Maybe it was inevitable that he would cheat on me.

Did everybody else see that coming?

It’s probably a good thing that we never got around to going through with the wedding. Once the frenzy started, he just couldn’t make time to sit down with the calendar. We never set a date, and I didn’t pressure him. I kept telling myself we had a whole lifetime to make it happen.

But then came the internet scandal where Lucas was photographed canoodling with Lili Ventura—herself newly married—and the photos started showing up on gossip sites.

Byshowing up, I meanavalanching.

Sites I would never have noticed, by the way. But then people started texting me marked-up screenshots of Lucas’s hand on Lili Ventura’s ass, circled with commentary like,IS LUCAS HAVING AN AFFAIR???andHOW DARE HE OMG!!!

Lili Ventura got the brunt of the internet judgery, to be honest. Lucas somehow got a pass.

But not from me.

I obsessed over the pictures,A Beautiful Mindstyle.

How could I not?

Did Lucas have his arm draped silkily over Lili Ventura’s shoulder in the red carpet line at the Grammys? Were they holding hands in thatcrowd shot by the entrance? And did he grind up behind her in that pic at the Grammys after-party?

I was no FBI analyst, but… yes to all.

The night it all blew up, I texted him in LA with no preamble:Hey. Are you cheating on me with Lili Ventura?

To no one’s surprise but mine, he didn’t reply.

The next day he called, sounding hoarse, and said, “Let’s talk when I get home.”

But we didn’t really need to talk.

I could tell from his voice. And the five hundred photos on the internet.

“It’s better to know now,” my cousin Beanie had insisted, and she was probably right.

Apparently, that was a full year ago—and now I was well into my current project ofthriving anyway. I’d kicked Lucas out, and bought all new bedding, and taken up crochet. In a late-night compulsive urge for instant self-improvement, I’d cut my own bangs with a pair of kitchen scissors. I’d purchased an air fryer, developed an audiobook addiction, and changed day jobs, from making promo videos for a university to… another job making promo videos. For anyone who hired us.

I was fine.

It was a relief, to be honest. I was never cut out to be fame-adjacent. And there were upsides. Breaking up meant I’d never have to sit quietly and pretend to be enraptured while Lucas played his guitar at me again. Or listen to him parse a conversation with his agent for three hours over dinner. Or—best of all—ever have to go to another awards show.

Awards shows were the worst.

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