“Nate!” I shout, not caring who witnesses what’s about to happen. “Open the door, you coward!”
I hear him before I see him.
The sound of muffled footsteps running down the stairs precedes his confused expression and tousled hair appearing through the long, rectangular window next to the door. He doesn’t hesitate before swinging the door open.
“Collins?” His eyes are full of questions as they flicker back and forth from my scowling face to whatever’s happening behind me. “Is everything okay? What are you doing here?”
“Is everything okay?” I practically screech from the sheer audacity of it all. “Are you kidding me?”
Before I can say anything else, he grabs me by the elbow and pulls me into his house, shutting the door behind me.
“What the hell, Collins? Why would you—”
He starts but I cut him off. I’m hot, humiliated, and my feet hurt. I’m not in the mood for his crap.
“Why would I? Why would you?” I step into his space and barely manage to keep my hands to myself. His neck looks like such a wonderful place to rest my hands.
He squeezes his eyes shut and drags his hands through his mess of dark hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For some reason, this pisses me off more than I thought possible. I’m furious I let him embarrass me, but I might be able to respect him if he owned up to being a scumbag. This I’m such a good guy bullshit is such a cop-out.
“Okay. Yeah, sure.” I laugh even though nothing about this is funny. “So you mean to tell me that it’s a coincidence that the day after I confide in you about everything that happened with Peter, the video just happens to show up in the HOA Facebook group? And that Angela, the asshole who’s constantly kissing your ass, didn’t hear about it from you?”
“Wait—” He shakes his head and tries to interrupt me, but I’m so over this shit.
“No. Nope. No fucking way. I will not wait, because you know what? I went to lunch with Ashleigh today and she was begging me to share what happened last night, and you know what I told her?” I don’t give him a chance to answer because the sound of his voice is liable to make me murderous. “Nothing! And even though you couldn’t wait to use what I told you against me, I’m still not going to tell anyone what you told me. Because contrary to popular belief”—I pause and take a deep breath before screaming—“I’m a good fucking person!”
“Collins—” he starts.
“Don’t talk, don’t say my name.” I’m still yelling when I fling open his front door. “You, Nathanial Adams, are the fucking worst and I will never forget this.”
I’ve said all I needed to say and my adrenaline is starting to fade fast. I need to get out of here before I break down in tears in his goddamn foyer.
What a nightmare.
I march out of his house and down his walkway with both middle fingers raised high above my head.
When I reach the sidewalk, I notice Angela standing across the street, a bitchy smile evident from even a hundred yards away.
“Why are you here? Don’t you have a family to take care of?” I scream across the street. “For the love of god, get a fucking hobby!”
The smug look disappears and her over-Botoxed face attempts to crumple. Unfortunately for her, the only Karens I deal with aren’t out here and I’m not buying tickets to this show.
I keep my head held high, and even though I want to run, I hold my pace steady as I march toward my parents’ house. And much to my credit, I do a fan-freaking-tastic job of holding it together . . . until I see my parents outside.
Their concerned expressions cause their gently lined faces to crease with worry, and it undoes me.
“Inside.” My voice is hoarse with unshed tears as I rush past them. “I can’t let these people see me cry.”
There’s not much I’m feeling thankful for in this moment, but managing to keep it together until I’m safely concealed in the comfort of my parents’ house is one of them. And that when I do crumble, for the second time in as many months, at least I’m not alone.
Chapter 15
When I was in high school, my mom went through a stage where she was obsessed with the show Hoarders. Day and night, it was always on our television. I always used to sit with her, my lips curled up in disgust as I judged these poor people. How could they let it get this bad? I’d ask myself, trying to figure out what in the world could be worse than living in these rodent-infested houses.
Now, as I sit in my bedroom, paper plates and empty cups piling up in the corner, wearing the same shirt and sweatpants I’ve had on for a week, empathy unfurls within me as understanding sets in.
My poor, sweet parents have been doing everything they can to get me out of my bed and back into the land of the living. They even made campaign flyers and handed them out to neighbors. My mom tries to sound cheerful when she knocks on my door with dinner or a piece of gossip from the Karens. But when they think I’m not listening, I hear hushed conversations through the thin walls about therapists and worst-case scenarios as they frantically try to come up with a plan.
If I was thinking clearly at all, this would be enough to get me out of the room and down to the garden with my dad or even just to the couch.
But I’m not thinking clearly.
I’m sad.
And it’s a sadness so deep that my bones ache. At every moment of the day, I can feel it building in my body. My limbs feel heavy and my vision clouds with tears that fall without notice.
Logically, I know getting out of the house and moving on will help, but what’s the point of moving forward if with every step forward, someone’s waiting to yank me back to square one?
My doorknob starts to jiggle and temporarily distracts me from my latest doom spiral. Even though the lock is supposed to indicate a desire for privacy, it only serves as a small obstacle for my mom.
“I’m naked.” I’m not, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind that might give me a few more minutes of solitude.
“Don’t care. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” a familiar voice that’s definitely not my mom’s says as the flimsy door swings open. Ruby steps inside my room and her beautiful face scrunches up in disgust. “Oh holy fuck, Collins!”
“Ruby Jane Peterson!” my mom shouts from somewhere inside the house. “I don’t care how old you are, you know that language is not acceptable here. You’re much too beautiful to have such an ugly mouth.”
Ruby pulls her lips between her teeth and her big blue eyes practically double in size.
“Sorry, Mrs. Carter!” she shouts before lowering her voice to a hushed whisper. “Oh my god! Is that what it feels like to be my assistant? I haven’t been scolded since high school!”
“Welcome to my life.” Faced with Ruby’s effortless, blinding beauty, I sit up in my bed, acutely aware of the current rat’s nest sitting atop my head. “Kimberly Carter lives to correct people. A few weeks ago, she told the checkout person at Costco that it wasn’t professional to gossip about their co-workers in front of customers.”
It was highly upsetting. Low-stakes gossip that doesn’t affect me whatsoever is my favorite kind of gossip. Plus, my mom stopped them before I found out why Hannah kept calling out—consequence-free—and shucking their responsibilities onto poor Nick.