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“No,” she says finally. “But you’re acting like I had a choice.”

“Of course you had a choice,” I whisper. “And you made it perfectly clear that you will choose revenge over me. Last week, today, tomorrow, indefinitely, whenever. And you’re entitled to that.”

“I can’t just let him go,” she says urgently.

I scan her face, then give her a slow, sad smile. “I know.”

With that, I walk out of the green room, my heels clacking on the linoleum. I push past people, ignore someone calling after me to see if I’m okay, and burst into the restroom, where I hide inside a toilet cubicle.

I sit on the closed toilet seat while I force myself to breathe steadily.

I am going to get through this, then I am going back to England. I am going to finish what I set out to do. Meet new people. Have new experiences. Look out for me, and only me.

I am not going to date anyone. I am not going to make any friends—at least, not for longer than a night. I’m through with trusting people. Through with taking people at their word, only to have them turn around and prove I’m the lowest checkmark on their priority list. I am my own number one priority, and I’m all I need. My job right now is to look after my heart, because it feels eviscerated. Shredded into a million minuscule pieces, light enough to be caught up in the wind and carried away.

I hope it does get carried away. I don’t want it anymore.

I don’t want anything that leaves me vulnerable to hurting like this ever again.

THIRTY-SIXMaya

You know when you have to process something really important, but your brain goes on strike, so all you can hear is the “error” sound a computer makes when you overload it?

Yeah. That’s happening to me right now. I’m the human equivalent of a blue screen.

I stare after Skye, dumbstruck, trying to figure out if I should follow her and try to talk this through, or give her some space. I want the former for myself, but I kind of feel like it’s a dick move to force someone into an emotional, heartbreaking conversation minutes before they go on live television, so I’m leaning toward “space.” Before I get the chance to decide, it’s decided for me when Isaac swoops in from fuck-knows-where to run me through the logistics of the plan one last time.

“So, what’s the code?” he asks me, steering me to stand not-at-all suspiciously against a wall, away from the others.

“‘You can take his,’” I repeat dutifully.

“Got it. Also, heads up, Gwendolyn knows.”

“Gwendolynknows?”

“I’m not gonna go behind my boss’s back, Maya.” Isaac rolls his eyes. “Come on, do you want me jobless?”

“How is it possible Gwendolyn is okay with this?”

“Gwendolyn,” Isaac says, “is okay with money. Gwendolyn is okay with ratings. Gwendolyn… has a team of very good lawyers on her side—we’ve done worse, don’t ask questions because I’m never telling you—okay,you good to go?”

“I… guess so,” I say, before nodding. “Yes. Let’s do this.”

“Let’sdo this.Knock him dead.” Isaac salutes me for some reason, then shakes his head like he regrets it, and heads out of the green room.

Seconds after he leaves, three familiar faces walk in. Lauren, Kim, and Francesca.

I let out a cry and rush forward to barrel-hug them. “Oh my god, hi! You’re here!” I pull away. “You lookgreat.”

Lauren waves a hand. “Never mind that. Maya. Congratulations. How do you feel?”

“Shocked?” Francesca asks. “Because I’m not gonna lie, I was shocked. You’re the plot twist of the century.”

She has no idea. “You know,” I say, “kind of. But if there’s one thing we can say about Jordy, it’s that he’s… unpredictable.”

Francesca bursts out laughing. “Yeah, you know what? That is fair. Congratulations, love.”

“Isit a congratulations?” Kim asks.