Page 120 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Hesitating, I push play.
“She was always driven,” Patrick says in the clip. “But never through love. I think the only thing she ever really cared about was winning. Her dreams were huge, her ambition even bigger.”
A sick feeling swirls in my stomach.
“If you know Juliet, you know she was born for the podium, not the altar. She doesn’t know how to make space for another person in her life. Never has.”
My cheeks go hot.Is this real?I keep listening against my better judgment:
“Juliet Monroe was so focused on her own image, her own hustle, that she never made room for anything else. Not even me.”
There’s a photo below the interview, a candid from the year we dated. Me in a very demure blue ballgown, arms folded, standing next to Patrick’s trophy wife mom at a charity gala. I glare at the camera like the person taking my picture spat in my drink.
My phone grows heavy in my hand, and I turn it off. I want to be furious, but the truth is I don’t have the energy. Because Patrick’s not wrong, not really, not about the core. I’m cold. Sometimes, I’m obsessed with image and control. I have never, not once, let myself need another person so badly that I can’t survive without them.
My parents taught me that and Patrick drove the lesson home. If you let people see your weak and vulnerable sides, they can decide that they don’t want you. Don’t want to deal with you. You’re too much, too loud, tooeverything.
I can’t let that happen again. Not after Patrick.
A door creaks open. Heavy footsteps pad down the hallway. I freeze halfway to the table, and try to look like someone who isn’t coming apart at the seams.
Hunter emerges, shirtless, hair damp from the shower, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His eyes are sleepy, but when they land on me, there’s a flash of something. Concern maybe, or just his usual predatory awareness.
“Hey,” he says, voice raspy. “Smells good in here.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I say, forcing a smile. “I may have forgotten the salt.”
He glances at the cookies, then at my face. His mouth twitches, almost a smile, then he goes to the cabinet and pulls out mugs, setting them next to the stove. Whether I want coffee is never a question. He just makes it, black for him and, without looking, a splash of oat milk for me. He slides my mug across the counter. The cookie tray is still between us, steaming.
“Rough morning?” he asks. His question is casual enough that it doesn’t sound like he’s fishing.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I lie. Taking a sip of coffee, I let the taste ground me. I want to tell him about the podcast, about the way Patrick’s words still sting, but the idea of saying them out loud makes my tongue feel impossibly large in my mouth.
Hunter doesn’t push. He leans on the counter, biceps flexed, watching me in that way he does when he’s trying to read the scoreboard before the first period even starts.
I break the silence by sliding a cookie toward him. “They’re not exactly grandma quality, but?—”
He grabs one, still hot, and takes a giant bite, almost burning himself. Chocolate smears the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t notice. He opens his mouth and groans.
“These are fucking incredible,” he says, voice thick. He swallows. “You should open a bakery.”
I snort. “No one involved would like that, Hux.”
He shakes his head, chewing. “No, I’m serious. Best cookies I’ve had in years.”
He says it so earnestly that my face goes warm again. He’s obviously insane. That, or he doesn’t have many cookies. It’s probably that one, seeing as how he’s a professional athlete with a team performance kitchen and dietician. I look down at the counter, resisting the urge to fidget with my hair.
The silence grows. It isn’t awkward exactly, but it’s charged in a way that makes my skin prickle. I can feel him watching me, not just my body, but the way my fingers drum the side of the mug, the way my eyes keep darting to the phone screen. He knows something’s off, and the longer I sit here, the more I want to tell him.
But before I can, his own phone buzzes. He checks the notifications, reads something, and grimaces.
“Looks like Silas got in a brawl at a bar last night,” he says, passing me his phone. There’s a photo of Silas, hair soaked in beer, face-to-face with some massive asshole, fists cocked. “Matthew Wallen, that douchebag from the Vancouver Vipers. Why they were in the same bar, I have no idea. They hate each other.”
I scan the article, muscle memory taking over as I make mental notes. I’m thinking about what angle to play in the press release, whether we should paint Silas as a victim or a hero, and how to control the narrative before it gets out of hand.
“Do you want me to call Coach Cross?” I ask, already drafting an email in my head. “Or should we wait for the league to weigh in before we start damage control?”
Hunter shrugs, muscles rippling. “Up to you. If it were me, I’d want you in my corner. But Silas might prefer to handle it himself.”
