Missing you so much already! I know you probably won’t see this until you’re back, but just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. You DID it, Sadie! You are the bravest person I know. (Also, Jonathan FIIIIINALLY asked me out to dinner! Torn between fancy French or something romantic but low-key…)
My battery percentage dips down to 6 percent.
I tap and hold on her text until my favorite pink heart emoji appears.
I miss you too and this message is so perfect I could cry, I write back, not even joking about the crying.I’m so happy for you! I’m also so so so so so sore, and there are a lot of things I hate about being out here, but there are also a lot of things I like…one of them is named Thorn (and I can’t wait to tell you all about him)
It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not snap a discreet photo of Thorn, too—what is it about guys writing in journals on mountainside cliffs that is just so attractive?—and, instead, use what’s left of my dwindling battery to check Instagram so I can finally upload a video or two from our first few days, and also to see if Abby’s posted any pictures from her date.
As soon as the app opens, I know I’ve made a colossal mistake.
At the top of my feed, there’s a carousel of photos posted by Gabriella Lawson, a friend of mine and Abby’s that we met at a book signing one time and have stayed loosely acquainted with ever since.
She’s posing on the back of a yacht in the first photo, wearing a fiery orange bikini that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination—the location tag readsCapri Isle, Sorrento, Italy, and it looks incredibly glamorous. But it’s not the towering rock wall behind her, or the glittering sea, or even Gabriella and her runway-worthy bikini that makes my heart stutter—
It’s Caden.
Caden, with his arm around her, one finger hooked underneath the spaghetti-thin tie at her hip. Caden, who never wanted to spring for any dinner dates that were remotely fancy. Caden, whose idea of a weekend getaway included spontaneous road trips to ugly Texas beaches and motels that smelled like mildew.
Caden is on our vacation without me, in Italy, living like a prince, treating her like a princess.
And the cherry on top? I’m the one who introduced them.
I scroll through the photos, unable to stop myself.
My stomach drops when I realize: I recognize every single one of these places. I picked them out—I picked them outfor us. The restaurants, the hotel. Every single detail has been plucked straight out of the shared Google Doc I created, except for the most crucial detail—
I was supposed to be there, too.
Olives and cheese and white wine in one picture, cacio e pepe in another. A hotel room that is the very definition of luxe, complete with a lush-looking bed covered in a rumpled white duvet. Expansive views out of open-air windows.
Breakfast in bed.
Espresso cups.
Her perfect crimson manicure.
Stilettos that even I wouldn’t risk walking in, despite how incredible they look. They look especially incredible on her.
And then—at the end—the way he’s kissing her, frozen in time for all perpetuity, preserved in her social media feed for the whole world to see.
I’m still staring at that last one when my phone dies. The image is burned into my brain: my ex-boyfriend—who dumped me for being too high-maintenance—on a glitzy trip to Italy thatIplanned—with someone I introduced him to—and not justanysomeone, butGabriella Lawson.
Gabriella Lawson makes me look like an amateur when it comes to being high-maintenance.
Caden O’Connor is an absolute hypocrite.
He said he wanted to spend his time backpacking here inCalifornia, that Italy wasn’t his thing. So why am I the one who’s here, alone, while he’s on my dream vacation with someone else?
My tears fall fast and hot. I try to blink them away, swiping surreptitiously at my cheeks to dry them before Thorn looks over and asks me what’s wrong.
I need Abby, need to process this.
My portable charger is all the way back down at the tent, though, so I’m totally cut off from her until I can recharge it and get a signal again. At the same time, as much as I want to talk to Abby—hear her rant about how I’m better off without Caden and maybe she and I can just go on a girls’ trip to Italy sometime instead—I kind of just want to throw my phone over the edge of this cliff and let it sink down to the bottom of the lake where I won’t have to look at it ever again.
I glance at Thorn. He’s still writing in his journal, oblivious to my crisis.
The journal is a good idea. I may not be able to talk to Abby, but I can write everything out like I’m writing to her, pretend it’s a series of texts. I know her well enough to predict her response—she’d send me a string of emojis, various iterations of shock and dismay and anger.
