Page 36 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

S unday morning, I crack an eyelid and groan, the wine hangover making my mouth feel like cotton. I push myself up on my elbows, wincing at the rare sunny February morning filtering through the hotel curtains.

I feel awful.

Physically and emotionally.

I spent the entirety of yesterday— Valentine’s Day —dodging Oliver’s calls after he begged me to unblock him.

He looked pitiful enough sitting in that diner on Friday that I did.

I knew it would be a mistake, but I did it anyway.

He wasn’t deterred by silence either, text bombing me most of the day.

I’m this fucking close to blocking him again.

Huxley, however, left me on read. Anytime my phone dinged, I’d lunged for it, hoping it was him, but it never was. The silent treatment stings far worse this time, and a small, hateful voice inside of me hisses that I deserve it all.

I should have stood up for Huxley in front of Oliver.

I should have at least done something.

Instead, I let him walk away.

I ended up drinking a whole bottle of wine last night and spent hours online shopping in a vain attempt to numb it all out. I passed out with my laptop on my chest.

Finding my phone somewhere in the covers, I check the time.

I still have hope I’ll have a text from Huxley waiting for me, but instead it’s just fucking Oliver begging to see me again.

I’m about to throw myself into my pillows and loudly groan my heartache when an Instagram notification catches my eye.

It’s from Sophia.

Did you see this??

My stomach sinks even though I can only see the message and not what she’s referring to. My heartbeat quickens as I straighten in bed and unlock my phone, now terrified of what I’ll find.

It takes me a few seconds to realize she’s sent me one of Huxley’s Instagram stories.

When the hell did he start using those in the first place?

But when it finally dawns on me what I’m looking at, I feel sick.

It’s a picture of Huxley, his arm wrapped around the shoulders of a twenty-something girl.

“What the fuck,” I mutter out loud.

I deliberate if I should click on the picture and see if there are more pictures or videos like it, my pride not wanting him to see that I’ve been looking at his stories. I eventually cave, needing to study it closer.

The photo was taken last night at some bar. I don’t recognize the girl, but she seems so pleased with herself, cozying up to Huxley. Something about his smirk feels mean and calculated. I can’t tell if my hands are shaking because of the hangover or this .

It’s when I notice his hair that my vision goes blurry. The black hearts in his hair are barely visible. It’s as if he purposely shaved them all off. I click through his stories, and there are more of the same. I can only imagine what he did next just to get back at me.

Why would he do this?

This feels uncharacteristically cruel, the feeling of betrayal akin to what I experienced with Oliver. The only difference is that Huxley was never mine to begin with. But I at least thought that I meant more to him than this. It’s as if he’s purposefully trying to hurt me.

And it’s working.

I stare at the picture, the knot in my throat threatening to choke me to death.

Maybe getting cheated on is all I deserve.

I’m just a thing that men use, only to be discarded when they’ve had enough of me.

I hold no real value. I mean nothing. Just a pretty little trophy and nothing else.

The feeling of emptiness these thoughts summon is visceral, like tapping into a deep well I never knew existed inside of me.

I barely notice when the tears start to fall.

It’s pushing midday when I arrive at the Remington the next day. I slept most of Sunday. When I wasn’t blissfully unconscious, I spent my time eating Chinese takeout in bed, watching nineties romcoms and crying into my General Tso's.

I’m usually never the one to wallow—that’s Jamie’s field of expertise—but I just couldn’t seem to snap myself out of it. It’s as if I’ve opened the floodgates, and every bad feeling I’ve ever suppressed in the past decade came surging out of me.

I woke up with red and puffy eyes and booked a massage at the hotel spa to try to make myself feel better.

It somehow made it worse, and I burst out crying on the massage table.

I was mortified and apologized profusely to the masseuse.

She reassured me in a soft, quiet voice that this was more common than I thought.

Still, I made sure to fatten her tip before I left.

Now I’m scanning the theatre corridors dreading—but also hoping—to see Huxley after the shitty weekend I’ve had. He can’t hide forever. Even if he and I are done, we still need to talk, or else the next McKenna family gathering will be especially awkward.

See?

I was right to think this was all a big mistake.

I get all the way to my office without spotting him, but I don’t think I can withstand the painful anticipation, so I decide to just face the music and go looking for him.

Backstage. Dressing rooms. Lobby.

I can’t find him anywhere.

Spotting Whit working in the auditorium, I stomp over and plaster a casual smile on my face, pretending that I’m not engulfed by anxiety.

“Hi Whit,” I say, my voice cool, calm, and collected.

His head lifts from the chair he’s working on.

“Connie.” He flashes a smile. “Had a good weekend?”

I fight the nausea his question incites, knowing very well he’s just making small talk.

I try to maintain my upbeat tone. “Great, thank you.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Actually, I’m looking for Hux, have you seen him?”

Whit’s brows furrow in confusion, and my stomach sinks knowing I won’t like what he’s about to say.

“Huxley quit. Said he had a new construction contract starting up soon.” He pauses. “He didn’t tell you?”

I feel the floor sway under my feet, and my nose starts to sting. I’d rather die than cry in front of Whit, so I bite into my inner lip and will myself to turn on my survival skills. Be the actress I was born to be.

I slap my palm to my forehead and laugh. “Right, of course. Must have slipped my mind.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

I smile and wave him off. “All good, thanks though.”

He nods and shoots me a grin as he returns to fixing the chair. Turning on my heels, I bolt to my office and grab my purse. I get the hell out of the theatre without anyone seeing me. In the safety of my car, I let out a defeated screech and text Jamie.

SOS. Where are you? I need to see you.

I’m about to lose my fucking mind.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

My voice is scratchy and hoarse as I sob into my hands, feeling completely unhinged and insane.

Jamie tsks softly beside me on the hotel bed and scooches even closer, wrapping her arms around me from the side.

She took the afternoon off from work just to come see me, and I’d be a lot more grateful if I weren’t so consumed with unrelenting sorrow.

“Connie,” she says quietly, “You never actually dealt with your breakup with Oliver.” She pauses, rubbing my shoulder. “It was bound to come bubbling up.”

My head pops up, and I look at her sideways.

“What do you mean?” I sniffle. “This is about Huxley.”

Jamie tilts her head and narrows her eyes as if I’m being intentionally obtuse. “Connie, don’t you think both are connected?”

I warily glare at my best friend as I wipe the tears out of my eye with the heel of my palm, most likely smearing my mascara in the process.

“How is me moving back to Marsford Bay and blocking Oliver, not me dealing with it?”

Jamie lets go of my shoulders to better look at me, straightening herself on the bed.

“You must be joking,” she says teasingly, but her gaze is warm and caring. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

I sniffle, the tears still quietly rolling down my face.

“I’m not joking.” My tone turns petulant, and I let myself fall backward into the mattress. I stare at the ceiling before adding, “You’re acting as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.”

Jamie snorts. “Because it is, you big weirdo.” She presses her palm into the bed and leans closer to me so she can look me in the eyes. “All you did was react to the problem, you never actually processed anything. What Oliver did to you was horrible, Connie.”

I look away. “Don’t you think I know that?”

As soon as I say the words, another wave of sadness overtakes me, and I choke on a sob. I throw my arm over my eyes, trying to shield myself from the world as I cry with renewed vengeance, my body racked with sobs.

“Make it stop,” I whine.

Jamie pats my free hand, then squeezes it.

“I know it sucks, babe,” she says gently. “But you just have to let it happen. You have to feel it before you can finally release it. It’s the only way to get to the other side. You’ll feel a lot better afterward, promise.”

Two hours later and after I’ve cried what feels like all the water in my body, Jamie and I head downstairs to the hotel restaurant for a bite to eat.

My eyes are swollen and puffy, and my hair could need some serious love, but I don’t have the energy to care. Luckily, it’s the lull period between lunch and dinner, so it’s mostly just us and the staff.

I gingerly sip on some coffee as Jamie, fresh-faced and chipper, sips on some tea, watching me.

“Don’t you feel better now?” she says with a pleased smile.

“I feel like shit.”

She cocks an eyebrow as she settles her tea cup back on the saucer.

“Yeah, well, next time don’t bottle up your emotions, and I won’t need to witness an exorcism.”

I snort out a laugh, feeling wrung out but grateful Jamie was there to weather the storm with me. “When did you become so wise?”

Her mouth falls open in mock shock, and more laughter bubbles up my throat. But Jamie surprises me by answering truthfully.

“Probably around the same time I broke up with Zachary.”

My lip curls in disgust at the mention of her abusive ex. She was trapped in that relationship for almost four years. Thankfully, Ozzy eventually came along and made her realize she deserved the world.

“Not that fucking loser,” I mutter under my breath.

Her smile is sad, as if she’s connecting to her old self. She takes a dainty sip of tea before speaking again.

“All I mean is that I never realized back then how much that kind of toxic relationship could consume all of my thoughts, you know?” Her smile turns into a wistful grin. “You’d be surprised how much space you have left for self-reflection when you’re not constantly in survival mode.”

I narrow my eyes as I study her but keep the levity in my expression, my finger playing with the lip of my coffee cup.

“Are you implying I’m in survival mode?”

She smirks. “Would you ?” She flattens her palms on the table and leans closer.

“Look, I’m not saying that, in the grand scheme of things, moving back and buying the Remington wasn’t a good idea.

It was — It really was, but …” She leans back into her chair and crosses her arms, hitting me with one of her all-knowing stares.

“You can’t tell me that those decisions were not hastily made as a counter-reaction to finding out Oliver cheated on you. ”

I say nothing for a few seconds, still toying with my mug.

“Ouch,” I mutter.

Jamie’s eyes turn rueful but loving, the care oozing out of her, and we exchange a few unspoken words before she says, “You know I’m right.”

I hate to admit it, but … she is.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

There’s defeat in my voice, but it’s paired with a silent plea, hoping that my best friend will swoop in and fix my life for me.

“What do you want to do now?”

Her question is ripe with a million and one unspoken questions I should also have an answer to. Namely, the ones about Huxley and Oliver.

My bottom lip starts to tremble, and I inhale deeply before answering. “I don’t know,” I whisper, the words stained with unshed tears.

Jamie leans across the table and places her hand over mine, her thumb caressing my skin.

“So let’s start there, then.”