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SEVEN

Olivia

Noah speeds off the moment my key turns in the lock of the door, the engine of his bike making an angry buzz as he zooms off down the street. It’s loud in the quiet of the night in this sleepy little town. It makes me wince.

I guess he’s not interested in forgive and forget.

I tried. I knew I’d never be able to rest until I had.

Trouble is, even when I’ve brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, I still can’t seem to drift off. I just keep running over our conversation—or lack of—in my head again and again.

He’s just as handsome in his human form. He looks grumpier, or maybe that’s just because he was grumpy with me tonight and with good reason.

With a sigh, I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen is bright in the dim light of my room.

I stare at the pop-up banner at the top of my screen in astonishment. 99+ notifications. That can’t be right. I’ve barely posted anything lately. I guess I’ve put The Snapper on the map at least.

When I open Instagram, I’m flooded with messages. One hundred people have liked your post. Two hundred. Five. I’ve been tagged in hundreds of messages and there are almost four hundred comments on the video I posted hours ago.

Usually I’d be delighted. This would be a very good day. When I open the first comment in my notifications, though, a sick feeling settles in my stomach.

Should have stayed missing. No wonder he left her. Just look at her.

The next message down is the same.

On and on until my hands are shaking and my throat is aching with unshed tears.

Why are people like this? None of these people know me at all. I’m just a name and a picture to them.

My private messages are just as bad. Seventy-two new messages alone! Grillmstr.Greg has shared an article with you. Forknspoon has shared an article with you. Bellabakes has shared an article with you.

It goes on and on. All the links are to the same article. They’re all from fans. Many of them have kind messages, but it doesn’t matter. The effect is the same as the comments from the trolls.

Broken Hearted Olivia Zeston Resurfaces in the Outback.

I know I shouldn’t look. It’s only going to make this worse. But nothing can stop me clicking on the link.

I’m taken to a short reel. It’s a clip of Justin and Rechelle standing close and talking after a workout.

They’re both wearing lycra, looking gorgeous and tanned.

It’s a bit of a stab in the guts seeing Justin looking so good.

Then they turn away from the camera and he slides a hand from her waist to her ass and gives it a little squeeze.

My stomach flips.

He said there was someone else. He said we were over. That doesn’t make me want to throw up any less after seeing that.

The same day we broke up?

I guess I can hardly blame him after what I did. But then it hits me. This clip isn’t from today or yesterday. In the video, the sky is blue and clear. It’s sunny and they’re both wearing bike shorts. There’s no way this was taken in February!

I really do fling the phone aside in disgust then.

I can’t look anymore.

Only I’m right back to scrolling two minutes later, the twisty knotty feeling tightening in my gut every time I find a new comment or video. A new account who shared my misery, spread it further.

The things they say about me are ridiculous. I know they are. That it’s my fault he left. That I’ve put on weight or haven’t paid him enough attention or I’ve been too busy with work.

Of course they’re all the things that have been going around in my head since he told me he wasn’t coming on our vacation. The biting, noxious things that make me question whether I ever really deserved him at all.

Sleep seems to have completely deserted me.

Even though I wash my face and lie back down, I’m still blinking at the ceiling and chewing on my nails an hour later.

Two hours later, I set videos of my favorite celebrity chef on a loop. By five in the morning, I’m trawling for ASMR recipes, but nothing works.

I’m blinking through the window at the early morning light when my phone buzzes with a notification.

Mom: Olivia, we heard what happened. Are you OK, honey? Call when you get this and let’s talk. We think you should move back home for a while.

I stare. Move back home?

Is that what this is? Part of me would really like to. I know what it would be like. I’d be up doing hot yoga with her at five in the morning everyday, eating vegan with her and my stepmom, Trish. Constantly surrounded by their picture-perfect love story.

I love them. Fiercely. They’re inspirational.

But I can’t be there right now. Not after losing my hopes of having anything like what they’ve got.

I dial the number and bring the phone to my ear, already blinking back tears.

When Mom answers, I can’t even talk for a moment. All I can do is sob.

“Oh, sweetheart. I know. Let it out.” She patiently talks me through it until I can be coherent again.

“I-I’m sorry.” I sniff.

“Darling, what have you got to apologize for? It’s that idiot of a man who should be apologizing.”

I wipe my face on the sleeve of my pajamas. “No. It’s complicated, but we’re both to blame.”

Mom makes a tsking noise. “When are you coming home?”

There’s a pause.

“Olivia!”

“Mom, I can’t right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just need some space. Some time to grieve. I’ll be OK.” I cut her off when she starts to protest.

“I’m going to stay in Australia a little longer. Avoid the media. Keep my head down.” I’m making stuff up as I go, but everything I’m saying sounds good. Like it is just what I need.

“I don’t like it.”

“Mom, I know. But I just need some time to process. I can make content here, and when I’m feeling better I will. But I have savings and that gives me time to work out what Justin and I will do about the apartment and all our stuff before I have to actually deal with it, you know?”

She sighs. “OK, but just know if you change your mind, or if something changes and you need money, you only have to ask.”

My voice wavers again. “Thanks, Mom. I know.”

“I love you, honey. And Trish is standing here waving at me in case I forget to tell you that she sends her love too. We’re thinking of you.”

I hang up and set my phone down.

I’m broken, but at least I can see how all the pieces might fit back together again. I just need a little time.

After that, I finally close my eyes and drift into a few hours of not very restful sleep.

It takes me a good few minutes to work out what time it is when I wake up. My body feels like it’s the middle of the night, but it’s full sunshine outside and my stomach is rumbling like I skipped ten meals.

OK. I guess I skipped one and my belly is a drama queen.

Rubbing at my eyes, I haul myself out of bed, take one look at my face in the mirror, and turn away.

No good will come of looking too hard at my reflection today.

The dark circles beneath my eyes are more like pitch-black pits, and my hair stands up on end in a wild ball of frizz that suggests I’m going to need five wash days to tame it.

Anyone who thinks wearing their hair curly is easier has never tried the curly girl method before. I yank it into a top knot and wrap my purple scrunchie around it, fixing it in place wildly askew on my head. I pull on my sweatpants and give my face a hasty wash in the sink.

I need breakfast.

Unfortunately, by the time I stumble down the stairs, the host informs me breakfast finished two hours ago and they’re not serving lunch or dinner because it’s Monday.

Unable to face the thought of appearing anywhere remotely nice like a café or bistro, I stumble out, blinking into the sun, and drag myself the whole mile to the local supermarket.

Some fruit and yogurt would be nice. Hell, a muesli bar would cut it this morning.

I just need enough to give me the energy to take a shower and wash my hair so I can look presentable again.

Lucky I’ve been able to go pretty much unnoticed here in small-town Australia. I’m sure right now Justin’s fans would have a field day with a picture of me looking like this.

The lights in the supermarket are too bright and the overhead in the fruit section flickers disconcertingly. I’m looking for the cereal aisle and accidentally turn down one with stationary instead when I have to double take.

The picture of the man on the cover of a magazine at eye level is all too familiar.

My stomach does that flip flop it still does every time he smiles at me, only he’s not smiling at me.

Justin, my ex-boyfriend, is smiling the smile I thought was reserved for me at a woman whose back was to the camera when the picture was taken.

But by now, I’d recognize that taut ass in skin-tight leggings anywhere. That’s Rechelle Oaks.

An ugly sob rises in my chest until it has nowhere left to go but bursting from me. I cover my mouth, but another wells up and another until I’m gasping, wracking sobs shaking my whole body. I stand fixed to the spot in the stationary aisle of the supermarket having a meltdown.