Page 147 of Dream On, Ramona Riley

Because she didn’t want to see Dylan.

Didn’t even want to think about her.

She couldn’t quite wrap her brain around everything that had happened the last few days. Dylan, Olive, Noelle’s job offer. It all swirled in her mind like soup, a sludge that gummed up her insides.

Plus, news of Dylan and Ramona’s breakup was everywhere.

Every gossip site.

Someone had recorded their argument and put it on TikTok and Instagram.

EvenPeoplemagazine had a small article about it, the majorityof which focused on Dylan Monroe’s tragic flair for drama, most likely stemming from her fraught upbringing.

Ramona’s heart ached when April alerted her to the article’s existence—she immediately wanted to call Dylan, to ask how she was, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Dylan didn’t care about her.

Not like Ramona thought she did, at least.

And maybe Ramona didn’t care about Dylan the way she’d thought either. After all, she’d kept her closest dreams from Dylan, the thing that, along with Olive and her mother leaving, had defined her entire life.

“You were just scared,” April said when Ramona said as much. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t love her. It just means you’ve been hurt, Mona.”

Ramona ignored most of that, particularly the L-word.

Everything was a mess, and Ramona just wanted to work. She wanted to do her job and try to clear her head about LA. She hadn’t even told April about Noelle’s job offer, hadn’t told anyone, and every time she slowed down for a second to ponder it herself, she couldn’t breathe.

She wasn’t sure why.

It was her dream, right there, on a plate held out to her with two hands, and yet she felt the moment she reached for it, it would vanish like a wisp of smoke.

Three days after Olive left, after Ramona finished sorting all the suits at the Bonner house for a lakeside shoot the next morning, she drove home, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for days. When she closed her front door behind her, her dad was sitting in his favorite squashy armchair in the living room, reading.

“Hey, Dad,” she said.

“Hey, honey,” he said, slipping off his glasses and looking at her. “You look exhausted.”

She dropped her bag, then slumped down on the couch, rubbed her eyes. “An understatement.”

Hehmm’d, then closed his book. “Have you heard from your sister?”

Ramona shook her head. She hadn’t texted Olive. Hadn’t called her, even though she’d wanted to every free second of every day. But she wanted to give her space too—and, maybe more selfishly, was scared to hear what was happening with her mother. Scared it was going horribly. Scared it was going wonderfully, because if that was the case, what did that say about Ramona? She felt like she was thirteen years old again, lost and lonely and left.

Her dad sighed. “I know this is hard for you.”

Ramona really didn’t want to get into it. “It’s fine.”

But her voice sounded dead, unconvincing, even to her.

He sat up, rested his elbows on his khaki-clad knees. “It’s hard for me too.”

Ramona looked at him, her father, the parent who stayed, who tried his best, who still had a limp from his accident that brought Ramona home all those years ago. His heart must have been broken when his wife left him, leftthem, but their family had never really gotten into talking about the emotional side of it all. They’d been too busy surviving. Any emotional needs Olive had growing up, Ramona took care of, or at least, took care of as best she knew how.

“She left you too,” Ramona said, stating the obvious, yes, but she’d never really let herself think about that side of it. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

He frowned, his eyes suddenly shiny. “I’m the one who’s sorry, baby.”

Her chest immediately went tight, her throat clogging with tears. “Dad, you—”