Page 85 of Play the Part

“Let me make it up to you,” he croaks.

My mind flashes to Huxley. And a pang of guilt hits me right in the chest.

I need to talk to him.

I worry at my bottom lip and look down at my uneaten key lime pie.

“I’ve moved on, Oliver.”

It’s justpast midnight when I finally get back to my hotel. Oliver not-so-subtly tried to find out where I was staying. But I was not about to divulge such crucial information. The last thing I need is for him to transfer to my hotel, especially after telling me he was staying in Marsford Bay for at least a week.

I peel off my dress with a tired sigh as I replay the night in my head. It feels like that handful of hours lasted forever. A bone-deep exhaustion throbs throughout my limbs like I’ve just completed a marathon.

I feel wrung out; the emotions I’ve experienced tonight restingheavily on my skin like chainmail twice my weight. The night was going so well … until it didn’t. It felt so natural to have Huxley by my side. He looked so good on my arm, and my stomach would flutter anytime my gaze landed on the black hearts in his hair as if we shared a private moment, even in a crowd full of people.

I slump to the bathroom and start my night-time skincare routine, dying to just fall into bed. After taking off my makeup, I change into a silk set andfinallycrawl under the sheets, phone in hand.

I wasn’t necessarily expecting some sign of life from Huxley after our fight—I know him well enough by now to expect the cold shoulder—but my heart still sinks when I see no messages from him.

Although it’s getting late, I dial his number, hoping he’ll pick up, but I’m not surprised when my call goes to voicemail. Letting out a loud sigh that feels like it’s coming straight from my soul, I hang up. Chewing on my nail, I pull up our text conversation and start to type a message.

I’m sorry about tonight.

I watch the blue cursor flash and flash and flash as I dwell on what to say next or if that sentence is even worth sending. I tsk under my breath and delete the whole thing. I’m too emotionally tired to come up with anything of substance. We can both sleep it off and talk tomorrow. My stomach twists when I remember that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

God … What horrible timing.

I slam my phone face down on the bedside table and turn on the TV to some late-night rerun ofFuturama, hoping it can quiet my mind enough for me to sleep.

“Some weed gummies would be great right about now,” I grumble out loud as I sink deeper into the pillows.

I fall asleep not long after, the lights still on and the TV blaring.

35

CONNIE

Sunday morning, I crack an eyelid and groan, the wine hangover making my mouth feel like cotton. I push myself up on my elbows, wincing at the rare sunny February morning filtering through the hotel curtains.

I feel awful.

Physicallyandemotionally.

I spent the entirety of yesterday—Valentine’s Day—dodging Oliver’s calls after he begged me to unblock him. He looked pitiful enough sitting in that diner on Friday that I did. I knew it would be a mistake, but I did it anyway. He wasn’t deterred by silence either, text bombing me most of the day. I’m this fucking close to blocking him again.

Huxley, however, left me on read. Anytime my phone dinged, I’d lunged for it, hoping it was him, but it never was. The silent treatment stings far worse this time, and a small, hateful voice inside of me hisses that I deserve it all.

I should have stood up for Huxley in front of Oliver.

I should have at least donesomething.

Instead, I let him walk away.

I ended up drinking a whole bottle ofwine last night and spent hours online shopping in a vain attempt to numb it all out. I passed out with my laptop on my chest.

Finding my phone somewhere in the covers, I check the time. I still have hope I’ll have a text from Huxley waiting for me, but instead it’s just fucking Oliver begging to see me again. I’m about to throw myself into my pillows and loudly groan my heartache when an Instagram notification catches my eye.

It’s from Sophia.

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