He’s not heartbroken. He’s lazy. I’m sure he’s kissed a lot of girls.
Suz
That’s not the point. He’s sorry, Rachel. For whatever it was that madeyou go crazy.
Rachel
Again, it was six years ago. Sloths have moved on more quickly.
Suz
You two are meant to be.
Rachel
I’m not having this conversation.
Suz
He wants you back.
Rachel
That’s not an option. I’m not the girl I used to be, who let him call me crazy every time I cried, or tell me that no one else would ever love me like he did, or make me feel like I had to earn his kindness.
Suz
Rachel…
Rachel
Suz, respectfully, you have no idea what you are talking about. You’ve never asked for my side of the story. You just wanted to believe what was easier, what was loudest. But just because Andrew was loud, it didn’t mean he was telling the truth.
Iturn my phone off because I’m finished defending something I shouldn’t have to defend. It’s ridiculous, really. Andrew is beloved in Magnolia Creek. He’s the quarterback that won the State Championship two years in a row. He’s the guy who pulls over and helps fix your tire when it goes flat. He’s the guy who walks in the room with a smile on his face and expects everyone to slap him on the back for simply existing, and they do. Andrew lives for his glory day stories, the retelling of what used to make him great, but no one knew what happened behind closed doors.
He knew how to spin a story…I’ll give him that. Somehow, I was always framed as the blessed girl on his arm, the one who was always told,“Wow! You’re so lucky!”—like I’d won a prize. Like love was supposed to feel like walking around on eggshells.
What they didn’t see was the way he’d go cold after a bad game, or how he’d punch a wall, or once, a window, when his anger took over, or how he’d disappear for days after an argument and come back expecting me to apologize.
They didn’t see my panic attacks that he called “drama”, or the way he’d call me names after another guy called me hot, or how when I won a writing contest and I was so proud of it, he told me that anyone could win something like that if they tried hard enough.
They didn’t see me waiting at the door for him when he was late, because it was okay if he didn’t show up, but it wasn’t okay if I wasn’t waiting for him.
They didn’t hear how every apology came with a twist—how, somehow, it was always my fault for “making him feel that way”.
How he made me question my memory, my intentions, and my worth.
How he’d flirt with other girls in front of me and then tell me I was insecure when I cried.
How he kissed another girl but told me it didn’t mean anything.
How he told me no one else would ever love me the way he did—like being loved by him was supposed to be a good thing.
But sure, let’s talk about howhe’sheartbroken.
I’m not mad that he didn’t love me well back then. We were kids. I’m mad that everyone keeps pretending it was some kind of fairy tale I ran away from.
Andrew doesn’t miss me. He misses the version of me that didn’t know better.
