Page 30

Chloe

T he smell of fried dough and caramelized sugar clings to the humid air, turning my stomach. I lean against a crooked wooden fence near the Tilt-A-Whirl, sipping ginger ale through a straw in the desperate hope that it will cure my donut regret.

It’s not working.

I usually love the summer fair, but instead of drowning my heartbreak in alcohol, I’ve apparently chosen the path of too many rides and too much junk food.

"Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?" Sara asks again, bouncing on her toes as Emma tugs impatiently at her wrist. “The Ferris wheel isn’t even spinny.”

The thought of being up high makes my stomach lurch. “You two go ahead,” I say, waving them off with a weak smile. "I’m good here.”

"Okay, but I’ll be right back after the ride," Sara calls over her shoulder as they disappear into the crowd.

Finally, some quiet.

Well, as quiet as a fair gets. I sip my drink slowly, watching the world go on around me, like I’m viewing it through a drunken haze. Couples are everywhere—holding hands, sharing cotton candy, laughing like love is easy.

The ache in my chest tightens as I think about Jackson. We’d planned this—this exact night. Two weeks ago, we’d mapped out which rides to hit first. Now he’s nowhere, and I’m... here. Alone. With too many donuts threatening to make a dramatic reappearance.

"You not going on the Ferris wheel?"

I glance sideways to see Brendan approaching, soda in hand. Still not drinking, apparently. Maybe he really has changed.

"Didn’t fancy it.”

"You used to love the wheel. We went on it three times last year, remember?”

I offer a tight smile. I used to love seeing the fair lit up from above and the lights of the town scattered across the headland.

“Tastes change.”

Like my taste in men.

It’s hard to remember now how excited I used to be when Brendan picked me up for dates. Or how it felt to hold his hand. I guess I was looking for support, but all I ever got was judgment. Was I wearing the right thing? Did I say the right thing? Was I the perfect girlfriend?

I don’t care about perfect anymore. I just want real.

“I thought you might be here with Jackson,” Brendan says nonchalantly, kicking a stray cup toward the trash can.

My grip tightens on the plastic cup, the straw bending slightly under my thumb. "We broke up,” I say, keeping my expression neutral. “I thought you knew.”

He raises an eyebrow. "That’s...unexpected. You two seemed pretty close. I just figured he didn’t fancy a nineteen-year-old’s birthday party.”

That stings. It’s a reminder of the age gap Jackson cited when he ended things. Two years isn’t much, but I’ve changed a lot in the past two, and I know I could change again in the next two.

Doesn’t mean I agree with Jackson’s reasoning.

A raindrop lands on my nose. I glance up to see clouds blotting out the stars. Poor Emma and Sara—they’re going to get soaked.

"Let’s stand under there," Brendan says, motioning toward a nearby tent—a rickety setup selling cheap jewelry and tie-dye shirts. He walks over, ducking inside. I hesitate, but the rain’s coming harder now, soaking through my thin dress, so I follow.

Under the tent, Brendan leans casually against one of the poles, standing too close. "Wishing you were here with Jackson?" he asks suddenly.

“That’s over now.” The words almost stick in my throat, but I can’t lie. The whole town probably knows by now anyway.

"Chloe," he starts, "I’ve been thinking about us."

"Don’t," I say sharply, cutting him off before he can get any momentum. "We talked about this.”

"Please listen. I’ve changed—you know I have. And now you’re not with Jackson..."

I stare at him. God, he’s got some balls. “What happened to you not wanting anything from me?”

"Come on. You can’t tell me you don’t miss it. Us.” He smiles softly. "We had something good, didn’t we? Before everything got... complicated?"

"Complicated?" I repeat, turning to face him fully. The rain outside feels distant compared to the heat building in my chest. "You mean when you dumped me over a text and moved on like I never existed? That kind of complicated?"

"I made a mistake. I apologized. And I know what I want now. I want you."

"I don’t want to do this, Brendan," I plead, my voice firm.

He sighs, stepping closer—too close. "I’m serious. We were happy once. Remember last time we were here? It was perfect, wasn’t it?"

Perfect. I remember that day. I remember it being hot but me wearing jeans so Brendan wouldn’t think I looked “too easy.” Pretending to like his favorite ride. Hanging out with his friends instead of mine.

Then I think of Jackson. His easy smile. The way he listens like every word matters. How I never felt judged by him.

"Stop," I say, my voice sharp. "Whatever we had, it’s gone. I’m not that girl anymore, Brendan. And I don’t want to go back to the way things were.”

"Because of him?" His tone shifts, bitter and sharp. "The mechanic?"

"His name is Jackson." The words snap out, hot and protective. "And yeah, maybe it is because of him. Because he’s kind. Decent. And doesn’t treat people like they’re disposable."

Brendan scoffs. "You think a guy like that has anything to offer you? What’s he going to do, fix your car for free? Meanwhile, I’m going to college. I’ll have a career. Money. I’ll see the world, Chloe. Do you really think he can give you that?"

I almost laugh. I should have known the guy who drove me to Emma’s was fake. This is the Brendan I recognize.

"Maybe not," I say quietly. "But at least he knows how to respect people. At least he doesn’t think he’s better than everyone else.”

Brendan’s laugh is harsh. "You’re seriously choosing him over me?"

"I’m not choosing anyone," I reply. "I’m choosing myself. And none of my choices involve you."

For a moment, I think he’s going to give up and I loosen my grip on my cup. He turns slightly, pauses then faces me again. “I know it wasn’t real, Chloe.”

I blink. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Jackson. I know it wasn’t real.”

Brendan’s smirk deepens, that infuriatingly smug tilt of his mouth making me want to chuck my half-empty lemonade at him. Rain drums harder against the canvas tent above us, but the roar in my ears drowns it out.

“What are you on about?”

“I saw the text.”

"Text? What text?"

"Don’t play dumb, Chloe." He steps closer, shrinking the space between us. "The one Emma sent Sara. Something about wishing you and Jackson would just make it official instead of pretending."

My chest tightens. I didn’t know Sara and Emma were texting about me—not that it matters. I trust them both.

"Wait." I narrow my eyes. "How do you even know about that text? Did you—" It clicks. "Did you take her phone?"

"Borrowed," he says, his smirk widening. "She left it on the counter while she and Tyler were getting ice cream. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." His voice is laced with mock concern. "Jackson isn’t a good guy, you know."

"You’re unbelievable," I snap, my voice rising. "You went through her phone? What’s wrong with you?"

Brendan’s scowl deepens. “I’m not the one faking boyfriends.”

“And you can’t call Jackson a bad guy while you’re snooping through someone’s private messages,” I counter, stepping forward.

"Relax," he says, waving me off. "It’s not like I screenshotted it or anything. But hey"—his tone drops, lower, sharper—"I could always let people know what’s really going on. A fake boyfriend, Chloe? Even for you, that’s desperate."

"Get over yourself." My voice cuts through the sound of the rain as I step back into it. "You don’t scare me, Brendan. Go ahead, tell whoever you want. It doesn’t change a damn thing."

For a moment, his smirk falters, his confidence shaken. Good. Let him squirm.

“You’ve changed, Chloe,” he says finally, his voice low, almost venomous. “You’re argumentative. You’re dressing like a—” He stops himself, but I know what he wanted to say. “You’ve changed.”

"I have. And I’m glad. It means I don’t have to listen to you anymore." I shove my drink at him, forcing him to grab it before it spills on his shirt. “Enjoy the fair, Brendan."

Turning on my heel, I march into the downpour, the rain soaking through my hair and plastering it to my neck.

I don’t stop until I’m out of the park, away from the lights, the noise, and the sickly smell of funnel cakes.

The wind off the ocean cuts through me, salt and damp clinging to the air but my skin prickles with unease.

When I glance over my shoulder, I see Brendan a few paces behind me.

"Stop following me," I warn, spinning on my heel and heading down the pier. The wooden boards creak under my sneakers, barely audible over the rain.

"Chloe," Brendan calls. "Come on. Don’t be like this."

"Leave me alone," I snap, not looking back.

“Chloe,” he says again, louder this time, closer. "That didn’t go as planned."

I quicken my pace, shoes slipping on the wet boards, my chest tightening with every step. "Seriously," I throw over my shoulder. "Take the hint, Brendan. You’re not wanted here."

The pier ends abruptly, the wooden railing looming in front of me as waves crash against the posts below. I spin around to see Brendan still following, his posture determined.

"Enough," I say, fighting a shudder that could be from the cold or it could be from the look on his face. "Leave me alone, Brendan. I’m serious."

"All this fuss over a guy who was just pretending to be your boyfriend?" He sneers, stepping closer.

“This isn’t about Jackson,” I snap. “It’s about me.”

He laughs. "You’re seriously falling for a guy who didn’t even want you for real? That’s pathetic, Chloe."

"Pathetic?" My voice cracks with anger, my hands gripping the railing behind me. "That’s rich coming from you. What’s pathetic is you stalking me because you can’t handle that I don’t want you anymore. This isn’t about me or Jackson—it’s about you and your need to control everything."

"Control?" He steps closer, his voice lowering, turning darker. “You’re the one who lied to everyone about your fake boyfriend.”

His face twists into something I don’t recognize—angry, desperate, unhinged. My annoyance curdles into fear as I press myself against the railing, my grip tightening on the slick wood.

I feel it before I hear it—the faint groan of the wood beneath my hand.

"Brendan—" I start, panic threading through my voice, but I don’t get to finish.

It happens too fast. The railing splinters with a sickening crack, and I topple backward. I see Brendan’s startled face, hear the rush of water, then the impact knocks the breath from me.

The water swallows me instantly, sharp and freezing, stealing the air from my lungs. I kick upward, or at least I think I do. My dress tangles around my legs, my sneakers drag me down like anchors.

When I finally break the surface, I gasp, only for a wave to crash over me, salt stinging my throat and nose. I try to scream but choke instead, the sound lost in the roar of the ocean.

Another wave slams into me, dragging me under again. I flail my arms, searching for the pier, for anything to hold onto, but it feels impossibly far away. Brendan is nowhere to be seen.

My lungs burn, my chest screams for air, and the icy water claws at my skin.

Jackson’s face flashes in my mind—his warm, steady gaze, his easy smile. I think about how safe I felt with him.

I don’t know if this is it—if this is what people feel before they die—but it sure feels like it.

I think this is it.

I think I’m going to die.