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Fucking Milo Fletcher.

Why does he always have to be so earnest? Couldn’t he have lied? A lie would’ve been far more merciful.

“I have to go,” I say, wiping away the lone tear that refuses to stay put before opening my car door.

“Can I see you again?” he asks, now standing behind me.

I tighten my grip on the door, hating how every cell in my body relishes the sound of his voice. It didn’t change. Still smooth as velvet. Masculine without ever being brash. The very same voice that used to murmur in my ear, ‘I love you.’

“I promised the Cushmans I’d have dinner with them tomorrow night,” I hear myself say. “We can talk again then.”

“I’ll be here,” he says, hope laced in his voice.

Unable to summon the courage to turn around and confront the yearning on his face, I do the only thing I can—slide into my car and drive back to Alder House.

By the time I walk back into my room, my mind is still a chaotic mess. Being here, back in Fairhope, seeing my bullies, seeing Milo, it’s all doing my head in.

Knowing I won’t be able to grab a wink of sleep, I put on some music, grab my laptop, and settle it on my lap as I sit in the bed, leaning against the headboard.

I open a new Word document and just pour every emotion onto the page. But then the strangest thing happens. As I start emptying my soul, a new voice appears in my head. The voice of a girl who was bullied for most of her life. A girl who was mistreated, neglected, unheard. Ruined.

She begins telling me her story—one that feels a lot like mine. A story about returning home for her ten-year reunion and coming face to face with the people who made her life a living hell. But also reuniting with the only boy she was brave enough to fall in love with.

Suddenly, I’m no longer writing about my own pain, but hers. Her battles. Her demons. Most importantly, her revenge. She suffers ordeals far worse than anything I’ve ever endured. Still, the way she rises from the ashes—making every single person who underestimated her regret it—has my pulse racing.

Yes, there’s a story here. I’m still trying to figure out what it is, how terrifying I want to make it, but there’s definitely a story here.

I must slip into a flow state because it takes me a while to realize someone is banging on my door. I glance at the clock perched on the bedside table and see that it’s well past three in the morning. Who could possibly be knocking on my door at this hour?

I place my laptop to the side and jump out of bed, only then realizing that I still haven’t changed or showered since getting in. But then again, who needs pajamas or brushed teeth when the words are finally flowing?

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I grumble at whoever is at my door, banging on it like a lunatic.

I swing it open to find one of the last people I wanted to see—Jordan. Wearing pink silk shorts with a matching pajama top, a glossy pink face mask smeared across her skin, a silk headband pushing her red hair away from her forehead, and two cooling under-eye patches stuck in place, she’s hardly a welcoming sight. I don’t even have time to ask what she wants, too stunned by the getup she’s wearing.

Do people really go to bed like this?

“If you don’t mind, some of us need our beauty sleep,” she snaps.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, still a bit shell-shocked by the pink spectacle in front of me.

“You should be. You always have been a walking dumpster fire, but that doesn’t give you the right to make me look my worst during such an important week.”

Okay, now I’m pissed. A walking dumpster fire? The fuck?

“Jordan, we’re not kids anymore. Use your words and tell me what I did that warranted nearly tearing my door off its hinges at three in the morning,” I say, planting a hand on my hip and arching a brow.

“Your incessant typing is keeping me awake. That, and that horrid excuse for music you’ve been playing on a loop. You know as well as I do this building is old as fuck. I can hear everything from my room. I haven’t slept a wink since you got back from wherever the hell you were.”

Okay. That’s enough.

“Listen, Jordan. I’m trying very hard to be polite here, but you’re making it extremely difficult. I apologize for the music. You’re right. At this hour, I should’ve had my headphones on. Though it was low, I had no idea the sound would carry to your room.” I square my shoulders and look her dead in the eye. “As for my typing—” I shrug. “Tough shit. I’ll write whenever I want in the privacy of my own room. If that’s a problem, then I suggest you add some earplugs to your collection of evening wear. Goodnight.”

With that, I slam the door in her face, but my triumphant smile fades the second I hear her mutter through the wood.

“Should’ve known better than to bother with Miss Extra Credit. Well, Jordan, live and learn. Some trash will always stay trash, no matter how much money they make.”

My hands ball into fists at my sides, my anger multiplying tenfold as the cruel nickname burns a hole straight through my head.