They’d rewritten them.
Ali’s name in the chorus.
“Ali's milkshake brings no boys to the yard
They’re like, ‘nah, not that broad
Damn right, they’d rather starve
She could feed a whole frat with her carbs”
Jabs about her weight in every verse.
Lines about “thirst traps with no takers” and “how to land a man by crying at his feet.”
Laughter erupted. Phones came out.
Ali couldn’t breathe.
She scanned the room, wild-eyed, heart slamming in her chest. That’s when she saw him.
Dylan.
Across the room near the bar, frozen.
His eyes locked on hers.
But he didn’t move.
He didn’t stop them.
And in that split-second, something inside her shattered.
Ali turned and ran.
Out the back door, into the cold, January night. Her feet hit the pavement, one after the other, not even noticing the tears on her cheeks until they blurred the road signs. She didn’t stop until she was back at the hotel.
She grabbed her stuff. She just grabbed her keys.
And she drove.
All the way home.
Back to Honeyshore.
Ali moved through the house like a ghost. Her parents were asleep. The quiet wrapped around her like fog.
She didn’t want to die.
She just wanted the pain to stop. The humiliation. The ache that kept her chest in a vise.
The image of Daisy sneering. The sound of Dylan’s silence.
She sat on the cool bathroom tile, shaking. The bottle of anxiety meds in her hand.
She hadn’t planned this. Not really.
She just needed to sleep.
