Instead, I open Instagram, immediately regretting it when I see that the gossip site has tagged me in their post about the article. I tap on it before I can stop myself, scrolling through the comments with growing unease.
“Who is she? Never seen her with him before.”
“Another model? Hockey players and their arm candy lol.”
“Looks like Williamston’s latest conquest!”
“Mystery brunette doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll be with someone else by New Year’s.”
“Ring shopping? Yeah right. More like a publicity stunt.”
Each comment feels like a tiny paper cut, stinging in its own small way. But it’s the ones defending Dylan that somehow hurt the most.
“Dylan deserves better than some random chick.”
“She’s probably just using him for his money and fame.”
“Watch her try to traphim with a ring.”
I close the app and toss my phone onto the couch, rubbing my temples when a headache starts forming. How did this happen? How did one silly afternoon turn into this mess?
My phone pings with a notification, and I consider ignoring it. But curiosity wins out, and I reach for it again.
My stomach drops when I see the name on my screen.
Garrett.
His text sits there like a landmine waiting to be triggered. I stare at the notification, my finger hovering over it, knowing I should just delete it, unread. What could he possibly have to say that I need to hear?
But I tap it anyway, an impulse I immediately regret.
Garrett:Didn’t take you long to replace me. I always knew you two were more than friends.
His words somehow manage to twist the knife he planted in my heart on Thanksgiving. My hands begin to shake slightly, and my jaw clenches so tightly it aches. My eyes blink rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill over.
How dare he. How dare he break up with me, humiliate me in front of my friends, tell me I’m too childish and not serious enough for him, and then have the audacity to act jealous.
I type out a reply, fingers flying across the screen:
Me:You don’t get to have an opinion on my life anymore
But I delete it before sending. Too angry, too defensive.
I try again:
Me:It’s not what it looks like. We’re just friends.
Delete. Why am I explaining myself to him?
Third attempt:
Me:At least Dylan treats me with respect.
Delete. I don’t need to drag Dylan into this.
Nothing feels right. Nothing captures the complicated swirl of emotions his simple text has unleashed. And ultimately, engaging with him at all just gives him power over me that he doesn’t deserve.
I set the phone down without responding. But the damage is done. The words are in my head now, along with all the insecurities they’ve triggered.
