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ONE

"Teagan, if you do this, then that's it. When you come back, don't call me, don't text me. I'm done. And I'm serious this time."

Looking up from my journal, I roll my eyes at the half-naked man in my bed. "You're not my boyfriend, Hunter," I tell him. "You don't get a say in this. And if you don't support me, you can just leave right now."

"Support you in what? Becoming a groupie?"

"No…in becoming a journalist," I snap.

"You're not a journalist, Teag. You have access to the internet and a hobby. If that makes you a journalist, then I'm a fucking male model."

"I think you should go." It comes out calm, even. But that isn't how I feel. On the inside, my blood boils. I grind my teeth, waiting, and when he doesn't move or reply, I turn to him. "Get out. Go! Now!"

"Teagan, be fucking reasonable. I actually care about you—believe it or not—despite all of your quirky bullshit. That's why I'm telling you this…I want to help you."

"What you're doing right now isn't helping, Hunter. It's the same shit I hear from my mom and my sister every fucking day. I don't need to hear it from some guy I'm fucking, too."

"Some guy, huh?"

I shrug.

"That's real fucking nice," he says, shaking his head. He gets up, pulls on his t-shirt, and starts toward the door. "There's something wrong with you. You realize that, right?"

I swallow hard, taking a deep breath, hoping it'll steady the rage building inside of me. Maybe he's right—maybe there is something wrong with me. It isn't the first time I've heard that. It certainly isn't the second time, either.

"That doesn't seem like something someone who cares about me should say," I tell him.

"Teagan…"

"Just leave, Hunter. And don't worry—I won't call you when I come back. I promise."

I turn my attention back to the journal in my hands. I feel him watch me for a few seconds before he sighs, surrendering, and stomps out the door, slamming it behind him.

I refuse to cry. Hunter was never my boyfriend; I've never been in love with him. But he has been my only friend for a few months now. I've never been very good at making or keeping those.

When I realize I'm still just staring at the same empty page, unable to focus, I snap the journal closed and toss it onto the bed. I decide to make another cup of coffee. It's late enough to drink, but I still have a lot to do tonight.

"Hey, Teagan," Blakely says as I step into the main living space. The small apartment I share with my sister and, for the past six months, her fiancé, in Fullerton is two bedrooms and right around 700 square feet. We're lucky enough to have our own bathrooms, but out here, we don't have room for a realkitchen table, and the cabinet space is so limited that we keep the coffee cups in the entryway closet. I open that closet and grab one now.

"Hey."

I feel her watching me; there's something else my sister wants to say, and shewillsay it. Blakely never could just mind her own fucking business. Already in a terrible mood after my fight with Hunter, I feel myself getting pre-irritated with her, and I'm sure she can see it, too. I pour fresh grounds into the coffee maker, press start, then turn and wait.

"I saw Hunter leave," she says. "He seemed upset."

"Yeah, I guess he probably is," I say.

"What happened?"

Here we fucking go.

"I'm going away this weekend," I tell her. "Maybe for longer. He doesn't think I should go."

"Teagan…" she starts, shaking her head. "Why…"

"I think I really have something this time, Blakely—actually, I know I do. And if I'm right about this story, my podcast is going to blow up."

"Teagan, if you want to be a journalist, you should re-enroll in school.That'show you become a real journalist. Not…running around the West Coast proliferating internet conspiracy theories."