Both her parents were in the car, and they both died instantly—or, at least, that’s what the police claimed, so that’s what Amanda chose to believe. The alternative—that they’d survived the initial impact and suffered several minutes in the smashed-up vehicle, terrified and in pain—was too unbearable to contemplate.
Over the next two years, she asked herself the same question hundreds, if not thousands, of times: Had she somehow fucked up thewheel when she hit that curb? Would her parents still be alive if she had just told them about the accident instead of returning their car the next day like nothing had happened? Would she ever feel peace, knowing she could have possibly prevented her parents’ death, or would she live with this guilt until the day she died herself?
But still, she never told a single soul the truth, not even her sister Kaitlyn, who deserved the truth more than anyone. No, she kept it all locked in, letting it eat her alive—until Townsend put her at ease enough to confess.
“It’s not your fault,” he said over and over again, rubbing circles on her back. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”
It wasn’t true, what he said, but it was exactly what she needed to hear. So she just held him and cried, feeling that, if this were the closest she ever came to peace, she would be okay.
The peace didn’t last. A few weeks later, when Townsend started to pull away, she thought it was, once again, her fault. Maybe she’d said too much. Maybe he’d decided that, yes, shewasto blame for her parents’ fatal crash and he no longer wanted anything to do with someone like her. But when she confronted him, asking why he’d grown so distant, he just claimed he was tired, or busy with work, or distracted by his dad’s failing health, or in need of a little space. And when he finally broke up with her, just days after the anniversary of her parents’ death, he even had the audacity to say this: “It’s not you. It’s me.”
“That’s bullshit,” she replied, “and you know it.”
It took a little coaxing, but eventually, she got him to admit what had really changed his mind about her. “You’re just coming on a little strong. Your messages ... They’re intense.”
“What are you talking about?” Amanda hopped off the bed—where she’d just given Townsend a fantastic blow job for nothing—and retrieved her phone so she could rattle off her last few texts to him. “‘Let’s hang later.’ ‘I’m horny.’ ‘Want pizza?’ What about these messages is intense?”
“Obviously not those,” said Townsend.
She paused. “Are you referring to the thing I sent a few weeks ago? After I told you about my parents’ accident?” Her face grew hot just thinking about the uncharacteristically sappy message she’d written to him, her head still fuzzy with after-sex bliss and the tangible relief of having finally unloaded her sob story:I can’t tell you how good it feels to have finally met someone I can trust ...He’d never replied, and she’d been stewing in regret for having sent it ever since.
“All of this is just too much,” Townsend continued. “You’re too much.”
Amanda didn’t even bother to defend herself, because it was over, and what was the point? Instead, she bid adieu to his slightly smaller-than-average prick and made her way home.
Before deleting the Cuff app from her phone, she’d scrolled through her messages with Townsend one last time, not so much out of nostalgia but for closure. His double entendres and flirty come-ons—which had once charmed her—now seemed immature, gross. But what really made her squirm was the smattering of over-the-top effusive messages she’d sent to him, many of which she didn’t even remember composing.
This feels like the beginning of forever.
Your my missing puzzle piece.
I want to have five kids and I want them all to have your eyes.
Jesus. Apparently, she’d blacked out and let her fingers loose on more than one occasion. The cringe-worthy missives just felt like further proof that she wasn’t cut out for this kind of vulnerability. Who was this person, who’d been so enamored that she’d written words that she now couldn’t even recognize? If this is what being in a committed relationship did to her, then Amanda didn’t want any part of it, not again.
This is what she was going to do: She would quit her job. She would sublet her apartment. And then she would buy a one-way ticketto Paris, or Barcelona, or Rome, where she would have such a fabulous time that she’d entirely forget the name Townsend Fuller. If living well was the best revenge, then she wasn’t going to just live well—she was going to live exceptionally. And she wasn’t going to let anyone—certainly not Townsend Fuller—stand in her way.
Chapter Nineteen
Meera
Though they live closer to Tarrytown Park, Gracie favors the Alliance Children’s Garden—not because of the many slides and climbing walls or even the splash pad but because of the tunnels. Meera’s daughter loves navigating the network of blue child-size tubes that meander through the park, so Meera is willing to drive the extra few minutes to the farther playground. Plus, Gracie’s dad always takes her to the Alliance Children’s Garden during his weekends with her, and there’s no way she’s letting her ex win best parent for something she can easily do herself.
From her favorite bench under a shady grove of trees, Meera can watch Gracie duck in and out of the turf hills, chatting happily with everyone she encounters along the way. This chattiness must have come from Hari; while Meera is fine making small talk with any parents who happen to plant themselves next to her, she’s relieved to find her bench empty this Saturday. It’s not even ten a.m., but it’s the peak of summer, and it’s mercilessly hot. Meera just wants to watch her kid play and read her book—Meat Cuteby Kennedy J. Abbott, which she took from Talia’s bookshelf after her friend insisted that she give romance a chance.
But just a few pages in, Meera’s attention starts to drift. Talia has been evasive ever since they discovered the Post-it Note in her bathroom, as though she wants to forget everything about the night—Meeraincluded. It doesn’t make sense to her, but really, nothing about this situation does.
As drunk as Talia was that night, Meera agreed when she suggested they call the police. Yes, it seemed a bit implausible that someone could have snuck into the house without either of them noticing, but Talia was insistent: She did not write that note, and it did not appear there on its own. The station then sent a pair of rookie cops to walk through Talia’s home, where they looked in closets and under beds, like participants in a reluctant game of hide-and-seek. Talia seemed almost disappointed when—after their brief inspection—they determined the house was all clear.
“What happens if she comes back?” she asked.
“Just call the station,” one of the cops replied. “We’ll be here as soon as possible.”
Sensing Talia’s distress, Meera added, “And I’m not going anywhere.” That still didn’t seem to put her at ease, but eventually, she crashed on the couch, and Meera stayed up, watching over her friend’s sleeping form like a sentry. And when Talia woke—rumpled and hungover but smiling—she simply asked Meera if she wanted coffee to go, as though the whole home invasion had just been a bad dream.
Sweat beads up on Meera’s hairline and trickles down her back. Fuck this heat, fuck this book, and fuck this Amanda chick for ruining the life of the sweetest person Meera knows. She stands from the bench and quickly surveys the area, hand shielding her eyes, until she spots Gracie giggling alongside a girl with chin-length microbraids.
“Babe,” she yells, “I’m going to the car to get water. Do you need more sunscreen?”
