Page 12 of For the Plot

Archer… what the hell would he think if he knew I worked for his dad?

It’s always a bad idea to open Instagram after two and a half glasses of wine. And yet here I am, curled into my couch like a human cinnamon roll of bad decisions, thumbs moving faster than my common sense.

I shouldn’t do it. I know better. But the part of my brain that wants closure, or maybe it’s chaos, wins.

First up: Archer.

I haven’t thought about him in at least a few years. Maybe longer. He’s a scar I don’t poke unless I’m feeling particularly self-destructive and tonight qualifies.

His profile is still public. Of course it is. He always loved the attention. Loved being seen. I can’t help but smile back at his photos. He always was charming and he certainly got a healthy dose of his dad’s good looks that have only gotten better with age as well.

He still has that same smirk, same confident stance. I got over the heartbreak of Archer. It took a long time, and sometimes I worry that it did change my outlook on love. Or at least my outlook on trust. Maybe that’s why Shane felt like he never truly knew me, because I was too guarded to ever actually let him in. I push that thought aside before I take myself too far down memory lane.

Archer is tagged at rooftop bars, charity events, Cubs games. He looks older, obviously, but still too pretty for his own good. Like aGQmodel who got bitten by a finance bro and decided to lean in.

I scroll.

There’s a post from a month ago, him in a black tux just like his dad, only his arm is around a woman with cheekbones that could slice granite.

They look happy and for some stupid reason, it stings. Not because I want it to be me with him, but because I can’t seem to ever pick the right guy.

We haven’t spoken in years. The last time I saw him was on campus, the day I found out about the cheating. He didn’t even deny it. Just stared at me like I was overreacting. Like fidelity was a suggestion and I’d failed the cool-girl test by expecting loyalty.

I can still hear my voice cracking when I asked him why. Still feel the sick heat in my cheeks when he shrugged and said,“It wasn’t serious, Skye. I was just drunk and stupid, it didn’t mean anything.”

Except it did. To me.

He was my first love. My first everything. The boy I built a future around, only to have him set fire to it without blinking. He knew the pain it caused six-year-old me when my dad ditched my mom and me. He knew the fears I had about beingabandoned again and still he turned right around and used my worst fear against me.

He didn’t just break my heart. He disappeared, transferring to a different school only two weeks after it happened, leaving me to gain closure on my own.

I don’t miss him. But I miss the girl who believed in him. The one who thought love was enough. I hate how fast my throat closes. How quick the old ache returns, sharp and stupid. We were teenagers. It was a lifetime ago.

I close the app and toss my phone aside, but it doesn’t stick. Five seconds later, I pick it back up and do something even dumber.

I look up Shane.

There’s a part of me that hopes he’s miserable. That he’s spiraling, lost, alone like me. That he regrets walking away from me because I worked late and forgot to text back and didn’t want to spend Sundays watching NFL RedZone while folding his fucking laundry every weekend.

But no. Of course not.

Because there she is, right there in his cover photo. Some sun-kissed, yoga-bodied girl with a minuscule waist and perfect teeth. Their matching Patagonia fleeces should be a crime.

I stare for too long. Then I scroll. And scroll.

They’ve been dating for a few weeks at least. Which means he lied about needing space. About not being ready. Which means— My screen blurs.Fuck. I’m crying.

I close the app and bury my face in the pillow, not even bothering to pretend I’m okay. It’s not just Shane. Or Archer. It’s all of it. All the times I let someone else define whether I was worth staying for. Whether I was enough.

I don’t know what hurts more at this point, seeing him happy with someone else or realizing how easily he replaced me.Like I was just a placeholder. Something to pass the time until someone more “aligned with his values” came along.

I set my phone down gently. Then I really cry.

Not a sob. Not a dramatic, cinematic tear-fest. Just a quiet, breathless leak of grief and anger that I didn’t realize was still lodged somewhere behind my ribs.

It’s not even about them, really. It’s about me. About how hard I tried. How much I bent. How much of myself I carved off to fit into other people’s lives. And for what?

To be told I was too much. Too intense. Too ambitious. Too unavailable. Too everything.