“How dare he,” I choke out. “How dare he?—”
Images keep sliding across the screen.
More girls.
More hands.
More smug smiles.
My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles burn.
“He calls me Gitania,” I spit through tears, “and then goes to a party with girlsall over him? Freaking player. Liar.”
Before I can stop myself, I hurl the phone at the wall.
It hits with a crack that echoes off the pretty coastal wallpaper.
I sink onto the bed, shaking, swearing, crying—everything all at once, too much, too fast.
The door bursts open.
Susan.
Irene right behind her.
Both freeze at the sight of me, wild hair, puffy eyes, broken phone on the floor.
“Oh no,” Susan whispers. “Honey?—”
“It’s all right,” Irene says, calm and steady as stone. “Let it out, Jade. Let it out.”
“It’s not all right!” I scream. “He’s leaving me all these voicemails saying he loves me, asking where I am, begging for another chance—and then he was at a party last night with girls all over him!”
I throw my hands up, furious tears streaming.
“He had a GIRL on his LAP—on his NECK—while telling me he MISSES ME!”
Susan rolls her eyes so hard it almost makes me laugh-slash-sob.
“Now you know why I’m fifty-three and still single,” she mutters. “I told you what that fisherman did. Boys never change. Men don’t change.”
Irene groans and throws her hands up. “And here I was, trying to convince you to download Tinder last night, Susan. Clearly terrible timing.”
Susan snorts. “Clearly.”
Irene turns to me, softer now. “Listen, Jade. He’s young. He’s confused. I don’t know him, butyoudo. Maybe just… step back. Focus on school. Sports. Your life. You’re halfway through senior year. You have decades to date. Not everything needs to be decided at seventeen.”
I wipe my face with the heel of my palm. “I don’t know what to do. I have all this anger?—”
“That’s normal,” Susan says. “But you need tools to handle it. I’m finding you a therapist. Today. I’m calling in a minute.”
I swallow hard. “What do I do right now? Today? I need something. I want to break something.”
Irene looks around, spots a lamp, lifts it, thinks better of it, puts it down.
“You know what?” she says. “Go for a run.”
I blink. “A run?”
