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“You’re telling me you would rather date Satan than Jordy?”

“I am telling you I would sooner go on a reality show with the prince of darkness himself, Gwendolyn, yes.”

“That’s a heck of a strong opinion.”

“Hellof a strong opinion seems more accurate here.”

I’m enjoying our banter, but Gwendolyn doesn’t laugh. “How about I let you think on it?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Can I have your email? I could send you through an information packet. It’s quite wonderful, we made a little PowerPoint—”

“Satan himself,Gwendolyn.”

“I’ll put you down as a ‘maybe.’”

“Please don’t.”

“It was wonderful to talk to you, Maya! I look forward to hopefully seeing a lot of you in beautiful Chalonne. Filming starts in two months, by the way.”

“I literally could not care less, Gwendolyn.”

She gives a trill of laughter. “Okay, take care.”

“You, too, Gwendolyn.”

I hang up, then spend the better part of five minutes staring into space, head empty.

Finally, a thought breaks through and screams bloody murder in the center of my brain.

I never wanted to have anything to do with him again.

It’s a desperate thought, aching and furious and exhausted all at once. But I shove those emotions down because I am noping the hell out of this before it even gets started and therefore, I don’t have to feel a thing.

Like hell I’m doing this. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances. Not if they pay me a million dollars.

Well, honestly, maybe for a million dollars. But Gwendolyn didn’t say anything about a million dollars, and she would’ve probably brought that up if it’d been relevant, because god knows money would be a much more persuasive selling point than the promise of being romanced, screwed over, and gaslit by Jordy Miller.

Again.

So, calm and unaffected and totally casual, I head back inside, nonchalantly sit down next to Olivia, and smile like Idon’t have a care in the world. Because I don’t. I’m fine. I’m goddamnfine.

She takes one look at me and furrows her brow. “Babe? What’s the matter?” she asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

TWOMaya

Rosie and I stare in shock at my phone as it vibrates on the kitchen table in the middle of breakfast.

Mom, oblivious, starts making her second coffee of the morning. “Anyone want anything while I’m up?” she asks.

She doesn’t get a response, though. Because someone namedDON’T YOU DARE TEXT HIM YOU GODDAMN MASOCHISTis calling me, and Rosie and I both know exactly who the hell that is, and therefore this is no time for coffee.

The name choice is a leftover from a lifetime ago, when I was feeling weak in the aftermath of the breakup, and Olivia helpfully changed Jordy’s contact name as a reminder.

And it fucking sucks, because now I feel like I’m in trouble with my phone.

It’s so not even fair, because this isJordycontactingme,not the other way around. But still, the flashing name feels more like an accusation than a notification.