Page 172 of Sour Notes

No.

Not doing that.

I have to try.

He was brave enough to put himself out there not knowing what the outcome would be.

I can do the same.

I’m Mia fucking Monroe, for god’s sake. I’ve made this ball busting, go getting, sex and relationship guru my whole identity.

Nick’s right. It’s time I reality-check my own life instead of letting the ghosts of my past control it for me.

Pete doesn’t get to do that anymore. He’s cost me enough already. I’m not going to let him take everything.

Today’s the day I take my power back, starting with putting my luggage away. I don’t need Swayze to put it back into the basement for me. I can do it myself.

Spiders ain’t got nothing on Mia Monroe.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I grab my bag and pull open the basement door.

Walking down the stairs, I focus on breathing and not thinking about what else might live down here.

Nope.

Ghosts.

Spiders.

Don’t come at me today.

The light flickers on, casting a pale yellow light on the dim space. I shudder seeing the webs in the corners and pull my suitcase hurriedly behind me. I see the shelves Swayze stacks our luggage on in the corner and hurriedly walk over, shoving it on there with more force than strictly necessary because I need to get the hell out of here before Mr. Spidey comes out to play.

Of course, just my fucking luck, I knock a box off the top shelf that narrowly misses my head.

That’ll look real good, Mia. Let’s try and win our man back with a black eye.

My hand-eye coordination’s never been the best, so it slips through my fingers faster than a lubed-up dick, landing upside down on the floor.

Scanning the floor for any creepy crawlies, I crouch down, gingerly lifting the box so I can shove it back on the shelf without Swayze knowing.

Of course—given my outstanding track record of things slipping through my fingers lately—the second I do, a sea of yellow Post-it notes tumble onto the dusty floor, all varying degrees of yellow, some curled and older than others.

What the hell?

Picking one up at random, I flip it over and see Swayze’s familiar scrawl on it.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013.

Pete asked you to prom today. Gutted. I planned to ask you on Saturday.

But you look so happy.

So I guess it’s for the best. S.

My mouth falls open in shock. What the hell is this? Have I progressed to full-on hallucinations? Did the box actually knock me out?

Reaching out with trembling fingers, I pick up another curled, faded yellow square.