May 2016
"Can I ask you a question?"
Blaire is in the bathroom washing off her makeup before we get started. She seemed off all day — quieter than usual, distracted in a way she was trying to hide — and I haven't been able to put my finger on why. Even now, she's never done thisbefore a study session. It feels less like a routine and more like she needs something to do with her hands.
"Sure."
"How did you get your scar? The one over your eyebrow and cheek."
Silence. Long enough that I start backpedaling immediately. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that. It's personal. I shouldn't have—"
"No, it's okay." She steps out, and my breath catches completely.
I've never seen Blaire without makeup before.
She's so fucking beautiful it almost hurts to look at directly.
She crosses the room and sits on the bed across from me, pulling her knees up. I'm leaning against her headboard with my notebook forgotten in my lap.
"It's not some grand story." She looks down at her hands. "Just a bike accident that ended with my face planting into a glass window." A pause. "I cover it because my mom tells me how beautiful I'd be if I hadn't ruined my face."
What a bitch.
"God, what a horrible thing to say." I set my notebook aside. "I'm so sorry, Blaire. I hope you know how beautiful you are. I've always thought so."
She worries her bottom lip. Her eyes turn soft and uncertain in a way I've never seen from her before.
I lean forward, closing the distance between us. It probably looks like I'm about to kiss her, and god I wish I could. Instead, I cup her jaw gently in my hand and bring my lips to the scar. I kiss every inch of it, long and intentional, and then I kiss away the tears that have started to fall before she could stop them.
I pull back just enough to look at her, keeping my hand on her face.
"Fucking beautiful," I say. "Every single inch."
She holds my gaze for a beat. “You’re my reason to smile today.”
CHAPTER ONE
BLAIRE
Colt: When is this little tantrum going to end, Blaire? It's been months. Time to come home.
Mom: Honey, Colt was in tears at dinner last night. He's really trying. You're breaking his heart. You're breaking all of our hearts.
Dad: Sweetheart, you can't avoid everyone's calls forever. This divorce you're insisting on affects all of us. Colt is such a good man. Just come home and let's have dinner and talk this through like adults.
I set my phone face down on my desk and stare at the ceiling of my office for a moment before I can trust myself to keep working.
Two weeks. The texts have been ramping up for two weeks, ever since the divorce went public. What they don't know — what my parents are just now finding out — is that I filed the papers months ago. I've been quietly, carefully building the exit for almost a year, making sure everything was in place before the world found out, before Colt found out exactly how serious I was.
The world found out two weeks ago.
My parents found out two weeks ago.
And now my mother is texting me about the tears of the man who put me in a hospital, like I haven’t told them repeatedly what he puts me through. But other than my parents, who refuseto believe me, nobody else knows about that part. I was very careful to make sure of that.
The public narrative is already written, and I know my role in it. I'll forever be the villain who walked away from NFL Hall of Famer Colton Monroe. The woman who had everything and threw it away.
His side has been telling that story since before the ink dried on the filing, and it's working, which I knew it would, which is why I built my exit so quietly. It’s also why I'm still not entirely sure I've built it well enough.
