Matt and I met up yesterday to apply for a marriage license. It was easy. Fast. In and out. Like ordering takeout, only cheaper.
I still can’t believe I told Sabrina about my dad. I haven’t talked about him with anyone but Matt and my therapists.
Ever.
Not since it all happened.
My fingers move across the mouse. I don’t know why Ido it. I never know why I do it. But I typeNicholas Demetriou arrestedinto the search bar and press enter.
The article is still there. It’s always the first one to come up. I click on it.
My dad’s name. Federal charges. A mugshot I’ve memorized.
I scroll.
Straight down to the comments section.
I know I shouldn’t. But the ache is already there, heavy in my stomach like a rock. Like heartache rotting in my gut. It’s the feeling I get anytime I think about him. And for some reason, reading these always makes it worseandbetter. Worse because I have to relive it. Better because it justifies my actions. That need I felt to run. To disappear. To cut everyone out.
No wonder the daughter disappeared.
I click on the comment, opening the thread beneath it.
Heard she went crazy after this. Tried to off herself.
Poor thing. Can’t blame her. What a disgrace.
Mom couldn’t handle it. She sent her away and then took a bunch of pills herself. The whole family’s a mess. I’d do drugs too. lol.
People don’t steal like that unless something’s wrong at home. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
My jaw tightens, and a sting blooms behind my eyes. I blink fast, swallowing the knot in my throat.
I didn’t disappear. I didn’t try to off myself.
I did what I had to.
I survived.
I close the tab. Then open a new one and typeMatthew Grayson charity gala Demetriou.
My pulse picks up as I press enter, like my body’s already programmed for what I’m about to see.
The article I’m looking for pops up immediately. Pictures of me and him right above it. I click it, heat activating in my chest. It’s all muscle memory at this point. Even after all this time. Though, it’s been a while since I’ve let myself go off this ledge.
There’s a large picture of Matt in an Armani suit, killing it, of course. I scroll. Past the text. Past the fluff. All the way to the end. To the picture of me beside him. God. We look happy. And we look good together.
Damn. We look good together.
I’m in a cream Versace gown with a high slit. My skin is practically glowing from our trip to Aruba. And the way Matt’s looking at me. Those eyes. That smile.
If you could sell love—touch it. Make it tangible.
It might look something like that.
I take a shaky breath and keep scrolling.
All the way to the bottom.
