Page 9 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Not that I really needed him to see me. I’m about three seconds away from sobbing.
My face burns. My throat tightens. Tears sting my eyes, hot and humiliating. I knew Hunter was mean. Everyone knew that. But I didn’t know he’d ever waste that meanness on me. I thought… stupidly… I thought maybe he’d noticed me.
I step back, my shoes scraping the stone. More people pour out of the back door, the party swells, devouring the quiet in the backyard. Neither of them look my way. They don’t even notice I’m there. My chest aches as I turn, pushing through the crowd at the edge of the yard. I shove past a couple making out against the wall, stumble against the gate, and spill out onto the side street.
That’s when I run straight into Patrick.
He looks polished as always, his shirt crisp, hair styled, smile practiced. He steadies me with one hand on my arm, grinning. “There you are. I thought you stood me up.”
Hunter’s words echo in my head, cruel and sharp. Control freak. No sex appeal. Spreadsheet virgin. My stomach twists. I blink fast and force a smile. “I was looking for you.”
Patrick slides his hand down my arm until our fingers link. “Want to get out of here? Somewhere quieter?”
I hesitate only a second before nodding. Anything to get away. Anything to silence Hunter’s voice replaying in my skull. I squeeze Patrick’s hand and tug him down the sidewalk. The October air is chilly, but my skin burns hotter with every step.
Patrick laughs, smug and careless. “Guess you’re finally ready to fuck me, huh?”
The last fragile thread inside me snaps. I glare at him, my voice sharp. “Shut up, Patrick.”
He laughs again, but I don’t let go. I hold tighter because right now, I’d rather deal with Patrick’s arrogance than spend another second in that backyard, listening to Hunter Huxley tear me apart.
And under all the shame and anger, something settles deep in my chest. A promise. If Hunter thinks I’m nothing more than a stuck-up prude with a spreadsheet, then I’ll prove him wrong.
* * *
Present Day
I walk into my apartment ready to scream into a pillow for twenty minutes. It’s been that kind of day at Foxies, the hellhole that keeps on giving.
Foxies birthdays mean me dancing on the bar. Today? Six rounds. Add the usual: finger snaps, guys tugging my shorts asking if they come in a smaller size…
Yeah, I’m absolutely done with bullshit today. I’ve had my fill. But I come home to find Jessa practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on her toes like she’s about to burst.
“Oh my God, Juliet, you won’t believe this,” she says before I even get my Foxies sweatshirt off. “I talked to Ivy, the team’s crisis communications director, and she wants to meet with you about the fake fiancée plan.”
I freeze with one arm still in my sleeve. “Wait. What plan?”
Jessa’s excitement falters slightly, and she suddenly looks sheepish. “The one you came up with last night? About Hunter needing a fake fiancée to fix his image? I told Ivy that you would do it. I thought you were serious.”
The blazer hits the floor. “I hate Hunter Huxley. I told you that. When did I volunteer to fake an engagement to him?”
“Well, you didn’t exactly, but you had the plan worked out, and you seemed so passionate about it. I thought...” Jessa’s voice gets smaller with each word. “Oh God. I already pitched the idea. The team loved it. If you back out now, I’m going to look like a complete idiot.”
“The fuck?” I stare at her as if she’s speaking Mandarin all of a sudden. “Jessa!! You didn’t just throw me under the bus. You backed the damn thing over my corpse!”
Of course they want me for this.
Not because I’m qualified. Not because I’m brilliant. But because I look good next to a six-foot-six tantrum.
“I know! I’m sorry! But think about it as doing the team a favor. A favor that might help you land your next actual job. You want to work in PR, right? Maybe someone on the team will owe you one. Maybe they’ll throw you a client referral. Who knows what could come of this? Besides, they would pay you very well.”
My brain is spinning. On the one hand, I want to strangle my roommate for volunteering me for this insanity without asking. She’s not wrong about the opportunity. I desperately want to show the team that I’m competent and PR-savvy. This could be my chance to prove myself in the industry I’ve been trying to break into.
And if it paid well enough? Maybe I could finally ditch the crop top and launch my damn PR company for real.
But fake dating Hunter Huxley? The man who ruined my college internship with one thoughtless quote? The walking anger management case who punched a fan last night?
“Please,” Jessa begs. “Just go to the meeting. You can explain the misunderstanding and fix this whole thing. You’re amazing at talking your way out of situations.”
