Page 8 of Bitter Truths

Whitney

Late lunch at Marigold? Need to tell you the latest drama. It’s JUICY.

Mom peeks over my shoulder. “You should go. Maybe some friend time will help you cheer up.”

Ouch. But at least I can escape.

“If you’re sure...”

“Yes, honey. Go have fun. Call if you need a ride.”

Me

Heading there now.

Marigold is buzzing with caffeine and conversation. Rain streaks the tall windows, and students have claimed every table, textbooks spread beside overpriced lattes and avocado toast.

Whitney’s claimed the best seat by the window. Her blonde hair glows against the stormy backdrop, and her white dress is crisp and perfect against her tan. Next to her, I always look like a rough draft left beside a masterpiece—scentless, boring, inconsequential.

Her rosy perfume hits me before she even looks up—flowers and sweetness that scream “omega,” demanding attention from everyone in the room. Everyone notices. They always do.

“Bianca!” She air-kisses my cheek. “You look...” Her eyes scan me from head to toe. “Tired. Rough day?”

I slide into the chair opposite her, fighting the urge to smooth my flyaways or adjust my dress. I pick at my napkin instead, tearing little pieces off the edge.

“Something like that.”

“I ordered your usual. You’re so predictable it makes things easy,” she remarks, scanning me up and down with critical eyes.

Classic Whitney. She has a way of cutting me down without meaning to.

“Thanks.”

“So,” she leans forward with bright eyes, “you will not believe what happened to Emma Redrow.”

I stuff my mouth with sandwich to avoid answering immediately. Whitney collects drama like some people collect stamps.

“You know her and Tyler, right? Total fairytale couple—together since seventh grade?”

I nod, chewing slowly, because everyone at school knows Emma and Tyler. Whitney glances around, then leans even closer until her perfume overwhelms my senses.

“Tyler went on that college visit last weekend, and guess what happened? He scent-matched with some freshman there named Melissa.”

I set down my sandwich as my appetite vanishes. “What?”

Whitney’s eyes brighten at my response. “I know, right? Years down the drain because of biology.” Her smile sharpens. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? One minute you think you know your future, then...” She snaps her fingers. “Gone. Just like that.”

“What’s he going to do?” The question sticks like sandpaper, and I gulp water to wash it down.

“Do? It’s done. They’re scent matches.” Whitney says this like it’s obvious, inevitable.

Does one whiff of a stranger erase years of loving someone? That’s messed up.

“So he just... broke up with her?”

“Tyler had his teeth in Melissa’s neck by the end of the weekend.”

I suck in sharply. “That’s brutal. Poor Emma.”