We settle in the living room. Susan’s mask starts drying and cracking, which makes Irene tease her even more. She pulls out the paraffin wax warmer and dips both of their hands in it like this is a perfectly normal Sunday night activity.
“Jade,” Irene says, patting the seat beside her, “come here.”
I sit.
Still numb.
Still hovering slightly outside my own body.
And then it happens.
The story spills out.
All of it.
Ohio. Royal Oaks. Leo. The crown. The slime. The deepfake resurfacing. The whispers. The articles. The comments. The room spinning. The scissors. The hair. The bonfire. The drive here.
Everything.
By the time I notice I’m talking, I’m already halfway through the part where I threw his hoodie into the fire.
When I finally go quiet, Irene doesn’t speak right away.
She takes both of my hands in hers.
Warm. Steady. Firm.
She squeezes, hard enough to anchor me.
“Look at me,” she says.
I do.
Her eyes are sharp. Not unkind. Just sharp enough to cut through the fog in my head.
“Jealousy,” she says slowly. “Envy. Insecurity. That’s the root of all of it.”
My brows pull together.
“They hurt you because you have something those girls don’t,” she continues. “Something they can’t buy with their daddy’s donations or their mother’s last name.”
My voice barely works.
“What could I possibly have that they’d want?”
She holds my hands tighter.
“Athleticism,” she says.
“Authenticity.”
“Grit.”
“Heart.”
“Talent.”
“And the one thing privilege cannot manufacture—resilience.”
