The last message was sent thirty minutes before, right after we sat at a table and ordered our appetizers. Apparently, I was “the guys.” Classy.
I didn’t ask him about it when he came back to the table. I just nodded to everything he said, sipped at my drink, onehand hidden on my lap, nails digging into my palms like they could somehow keep me from exploding. But deep inside me, something was seething, ready to burst. Seriously, how hard is it to love me? Some wild, feral thing clawed at my chest, scraping against bone and flesh, desperate to break free and shriek and yell, but I was too ashamed to let it out. How could he do this? How could he do this to me? How could he act like none of it mattered? Pretending it was nothing. Saying what we did was nothing.
He made me feel like nothing.
I alwaysknewit would end, me and Jonathan, it’s just the way it is for me—no one ever sticks around. But, oh, how I hoped. God, I hoped like some lovesick idiot that it would work out for us, that this time would be different, that he’d be different from all the other guys in my past who couldn’t find the exit fast enough.
Hope is a cruel trick though, isn’t it? It’s like the universe’s favorite prank. It gets you all set up, makes you believe things might actually go your way, blinds you to the inevitable, and then—bam—you’re face-first on the pavement, wondering why you thought you could ever fly.
I think I’m always just waiting for people, especially men, to hurt me. It’s like I’ve got this sixth sense for incoming emotional devastation. And when it finally happens, I get this twisted sense of self-satisfaction—like, see? Knew it. Then I dive headfirst into the misery, let it eat me alive from the inside out. There’s definitely something wrong with me; I’m convinced there’s some deep-rooted darkness in my DNA, something wild and unlovable running through my veins.
Now I drink and fuck just to drown out the sound of his voice, of those damn words he swears he never said. I know I’ll get over it—I always do—but sometimes a girl just needs to marinate in her anger, let it simmer and sizzle until the pain really sinks in.Then she can rise stronger and wiser from the ashes. It’s a pretty badass theory, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.
Because I’m a total glutton for punishment, the first thing I do when I get back to my car is pull out my phone and scroll through Jonathan’s social media. And there she is—Marissa’s face plastered everywhere, in every post. A carbon copy of me hanging on his arm, perched on his lap, even wearing one of my old t-shirts that I left at his house. They’re snuggled up in his bed, under that expensive luxury comforter I bought him because he said he wanted to see me wrapped naked in it. And just when I think it can’t get any worse, there’s a picture of them at his kitchen table—the one he used to love to fuck me on—with the oh-so-charming caption:Finally experiencing what real love feels like!
Yeah, Jonathan, I bet it feels real nice.
I wish I had blocked him. He knew exactly what he was doing when he posted that, knew I’d see it, knew it would cut deep. And he didn’t care. Not one bit. I fling my phone onto the passenger seat and let out a string of expletives, each one sharper and louder than the last.
As I drive down Main Street, I swing into the first drive-thru I spot, ordering coffee and a small breakfast wrap, hoping to settle the alcohol still churning in my stomach. My head still throbs, and tears are threatening to spill as I take a sip of the scalding coffee. It takes everything in me not to completely lose it right there in my car. Instead, I focus on my breathing and with a burnt tongue swallow back three loose aspirin I find rolling around in the cup holder of my console. I devour my breakfast burrito in two inhuman bites and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, becausefuck napkins.
Five miles later, I pull into the Everwood parking lot and stare at the entrance, my stomach twisting with dread and resignation.The estate is enormous, looming like some Gothicnightmare. A grand American Renaissance-style mansion built during the Gilded Age, now suffocated by dark, overgrown ivy. The front façade is covered with elaborately carved stonework, cherubs and gargoyles entwined in a grim dance. Behind the great sprawling building, a dark thicket of decorative shrubbery hides the old abandoned amusement park this place was once famous for.
Stepping out of my car, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror: same clothes as yesterday, rumpled and stained with remnants of last night’s escapades. My hair is a wild mess, and the makeup that had survived the night now makes me look like a rabid raccoon. Perfect. I take a deep breath and trudge toward the estate’s front entrance, mentally bracing myself for whatever fresh hell awaits inside.
And there it is—the first punch to the gut. Jonathan and Marissa stand by the front desk, laughing together like they’re in some toothpaste commercial. Their perfect smiles, bright and flawless, falter and twist when they see me coming. I smell like sex and booze. I take another deep breath and force a smile at both of them and hope they fucking choke on my stench.
Chapter
Two
It’s October, and the crew is getting together for the first time in what feels like forever, even though it’s only been a year. Me, the cheaters—Marissa and Jonathan—along with Hayes, Griffin, and Tessa. Ellis and Sullivan bailed at the last minute, as always. I should have done the same, but no, I’m here, stuck for the next four days in this Halloween tourist trap during peak fall foliage season in the Northeast. Yay me.
“What do you think?” Tessa asks, placing a well-manicured hand on my forearm. “This time of year, it’s always so hard to book something. It’s very exclusive, though. They only allow one group of guests stay here at a time.”
So, definitely no more hook-ups for me this weekend.Wonderful.
“It’s great, Tess. The drive up was beautiful too,” I say, forcing a smile. I quickly look down at my shoes and shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie before my face betrays just how much I’d rather be anywhere else. I can’t help but compare this trip to last year’s—Maine, where Jonathan and I first kissed.Now he’s standing about three feet away from me, Marissa pressed into his chest like some new cancerous growth.
Tessa pulls a thick brochure out of her bag and unfolds it. She points to a cascade of vibrant leaves and a labyrinth of topiary carved into strangely, twisted shapes. “The website said this place has become a byword for all things macabre. It’s the number one spot to celebrate Halloween in the U.S.”
Our October getaways have always been a big deal—every year, without fail, since freshman year in college. It started while we all lived in New York and drove up to Salem for the weekend when we realized all of our birthdays fall around Halloween. We started doing one wild weekend bender to celebrate all of us. We even tried to come up with a name for it: the Boo Crew, the October Club, the Misfits. Nothing ever stuck. That first trip was a hot mess, but hey, we were freshmen, some of us flying solo for the first time. Back then, messy was expected—almost a rite of passage.
Five years post-graduation, we’re still doing it—picking a different state every year, hunting for the spookiest spot we can find to celebrate the season. The season of us, or whatever.
Everwood is a picturesque town. Small and charming, its residents seem to take pride in transforming the place into a hauntingly cozy haven. Vibrant leaves in reds, oranges, and yellows paint the landscape along the cobblestone streets. Victorian-style houses, draped in ghostly cobwebs and adorned with flickering jack-o’-lanterns, line the sidewalks where skeletons lean lazily on century-old wrought-iron fences, and what I think are ravens caw ominously from atop blackened roofs.
Tessa and I walk down a wide hallway that opens into a large, dreary sitting room. The room is dark, gloomy. The whole place seems like that. Even as we stand by a window, the sunlight seems to mute on the inside, darkening thickly in the corners.
Through the window, you can clearly see the gray prongs of a Ferris wheel and the first dip of a rollercoaster, weathered from years of rain and neglect.
“Creepy, right?” Tessa says, standing beside me by the window, a forced smile on her lips.
“An old abandoned amusement park? Yeah, that’s creepy as hell,” I reply, keeping my voice low. It feels awkward standing here with her—maybe because we haven’t spoken in so long.
“I thought it would be. It’s all part of the Halloween experience here. It’s actually an elaborate escape room,” she says, her tone overly cheerful, almost as if she’s trying too hard.
“Oh, wow, really?” I attempt to sound interested, but my voice comes out more awkward than I intended.
