Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(70)

The last drop of hope I’ve clung to has evaporated. This is rock bottom. It’s simply not possible for things to get any worse than they are at this moment.

At least things can only go up from here.

There is something oddly comforting about living through the worst-case scenario. With that over with, there’s not much left to worry about. The revelation fills me with a small sense of relief. It’s not enough to stop my body from aching or my head from buzzing, but it is enough to motivate me to stand up again.

I change out of my corset and jeans and into my oversized Queen T-shirt and athletic shorts. I manage to collect my tangled hair into a bun on top of my head. I follow my feet down the stairs, returning to my room a minute later with a box of trash bags in hand. Without hesitation, I begin the process of filling them up with every single romance novel I own.

Propaganda. That’s what they are.

I throw my box set of Bridgerton books into a bag without looking back. I don’t so much as flinch when I toss my collection of FBI romances in after it. Good riddance to all the books I’ve read for book club with Ethan. Goodbye to my tattered copy of The Fault in Our Stars that I reread every year.

Once I’m sure that I’ve disposed of every single book, I’m left with four full trash bags. It takes me an hour to drag all of them down the stairs and out the front door.

As I’m walking out of the apartment with the last trash bag, something catches my eye. The laminated edge of my list peeks out of my tote, mocking me. My stomach turns at the sight. I snatch up the list and shove it into the bag with the last of my discarded books. I leave everything on the sidewalk outside with a note: Free books. Help yourself.



* * *



—

The static in my brain has yet to disappear. For better or for worse, it’s kept me from having to think. So did the mindless activity of heaving hundreds of pounds of books down the stairs. Sweaty and breathless, I stumble into the kitchen for a glass of lukewarm sink water, planning to take it up to my room and crawl back into bed.

I never make it to the faucet.

The photo of Jonathan and me taped to the fridge, the one of us at graduation, knocks the wind out of me. I reach out and press my fingers against it, remembering exactly how I felt the moment the flash went off.

How lucky am I, I thought, to have my whole life ahead of me and to get to experience it with my best friend.

The memory is enough to quiet the noise in my head for just a moment, long enough for the weight of what’s happened to hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. I’ve walked past this photo of me and Jonathan thousands of times before, but today, it strikes me differently. Today, it serves as a wake-up call, a reminder of the things that matter. Of how much his friendship means to me.

It means everything.

And I let myself lose sight of that.

Without letting another second pass, I grab my keys, walk out the door, and begin to drive.





22


If there was ever a time to curse LA traffic, it’s right now. I lay all my weight on my horn. “THE. LIGHT. IS. GREEN!!!!!!”

Now that the fog in my head is subsiding, I’m starting to see things clearly. Since making my list, I’ve been so worried about myself, about my future, that I’ve completely missed what’s been going on right in front of me. Like Jonathan suggested I do in the first place, I’m taking a step back. Finally, I’m getting a glimpse of the bigger picture.

I think Sandy was right. All the time and energy I spent throwing myself into my list and obsessing over Finn was just my way of avoiding the things that scared me: the shift in my relationship with Jonathan and the feelings I have for Matthew.

Matthew.

I can think about him later.

Because as I pull up to the corporate office building just shy of downtown, all I want to do is make things right with Jonathan. There are still some hurt feelings that I need to work through, but they’re overpowered by a fierce need to tell him that I love him and I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I’m sure there’s more to say than that, as well as questions to be asked, but for now saying those two things feels like the only thing that really matters.

I loop around the block twice, frantically searching for a parking spot, with no success.

This could take an hour.

I don’t have time to waste; the workday is almost over and Jonathan could leave any minute. I certainly can’t afford to miss him. I pull my car up to the red curb in front of his office and cut the engine. I’ll gladly go into debt paying off a parking ticket if it means getting to Jonathan even a second sooner.

I run past the elevators and throw open the door to the stairs, sprinting to the seventh floor with a speed I didn’t know I possessed. My legs scream at me to slow down when I round the corner to floor six, but I keep going, practically crawling by the time I emerge from the stairwell. Having been here only once, years ago, I find myself lost in a sea of cubicles and closed office doors.

I turn right, colliding with a leggy blonde who seems to materialize out of thin air. I recognize her immediately. Sydney.

I was entirely wrong about her involvement in all this. Part of me wants to apologize to her.

But then she opens her mouth.

“Can I help you?” Her tone is sharp. I catch her glaring at my massive T-shirt, probably noting the way it clings to my body with a layer of sweat.