Page 134 of Fangirl

I start to turn.

Penis.

I pivot back, lifting my chin.

“Actually,” I say, walking to his desk, “I came to give you this.”

I slide the envelope onto the wood between us.

“My resignation. Four weeks’ notice. Effective immediately.”

Mr. Peters blinks, reaching for the envelope like it might bite. “Amy—no. You can’t leave. Did you get another job? I’m sure we can match the salary.”

And just like that, the anger comes, not at him, but at myself. For all the years I stayed quiet and stayed small. Kept my concerns to myself like a good girl in a decent-paying job, too afraid to ask for more. To want more.

Always make the safe choice, Amelia. Do what’s reasonable. Do what’s expected.

“No,” I say firmly. “I didn’t get another job. And I’m not looking for one either. My decision’s made.”

He studies me for a moment, something like disappointment or maybe disbelief shadowing his features.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He nods slowly. “Alright, but I’d appreciate it if you kept this quiet for now.”

The rest of the day drags. Everything feels strange now that I know it’s the end, a surreal calm beneath the nerves, like I’m watching myself from the outside.

And I know the photos from the LA premiere made it into the office. I can tell by the way Jolene keeps sneaking glances at me, wide-eyed and giddy, like she’s caught wind of something scandalous and doesn’t know how to sit on it.

She thinks she knows the story. But she doesn’t know a damn thing.

And part of me, stubborn, hopeful, and foolish, still believes the story isn’t finished yet.

That somewhere between the cracks and the silence, there’s still space for a happy ending. Like inBackstage Heart.

Like the ones I write when I’m brave enough to believe they’re possible.

I’m almost out the door when Jolene corners me by the coat rack, her faux-casual smile stretched just a little too wide.

“So…” she drawls, sweet as poison. “LA looked… interesting.”

I blink. “What?”

She lifts her phone. Of course she does. A Getty Images watermark catches the light.

It’s us—Jake and me. The premiere. The red dress. The heels. His hand at the small of my back.

“Didn’t peg you for a Hollywood type,” she adds, all fake charm and sharp eyes. “Guess the quiet ones always surprise you.”

I force a smile. “Guess so.”

Andthat’s it. I slip on my coat and walk away before she can ask more questions. Before I say something I’ll regret.

But inside, I laugh, quiet and bitter.

You have no idea, Jolene. Not about me. Not about him.