Chapter2

When I woke up the next morning, I reached for my phone. The screen lit up.

Blank notifications.

I stared at the empty screen for a few seconds before setting the phone down.

My mom was heating milk in the kitchen. Seeing me walk out, she asked, "Going over to Zane's today?"

"No."

She gave me a long look but didn't push it.

I took my glass of milk back to my room and shut the door.

Over the next few days, I unpinned Zane from my messages.

I muted his posts and stories.

But I’ll admit, for the first few days, I still clicked into his profile.

Once in the morning, once at noon, and once right before bed.

Nothing. He hadn't posted a single thing.

I told myself this meant he had nothing to show off. But another voice whispered that maybe he had just hidden his posts from me. Maybe he was posting, and I just couldn't see it.

I didn't know which thought was worse.

By the fifth day, I found myself checking his page less.

By the tenth day, I was lying in bed at night when I realized I hadn't checked it once all day.

I rolled over and let it be.

In mid-August, I tossed and turned in bed one night, unable to sleep.

I gave in and used a burner account to search Zane's handle.

It was public.

His latest post was from two days ago.

He was shirtless on a yacht, his arm wrapped tightly around the waist of Serena, the blonde cheer captain. She was wearing a blazing red bikini, practically draped across his body as she tilted her head back to kiss his jaw.

The caption read: "Free ocean breeze. Finally shook off the ten-year leash."

The comments were swarming with his frat brothers.

Mike wrote: "My thousand bucks are ready. She's definitely packing her bags right now, right?"

Jason replied: "Chill, I bet she doesn't even make it to syllabus week."

Serena herself had replied: "Don't be too mean to her. After all, she literally has nothing else besides you."

I stared at that comment, frozen for a moment.

Because it was true. I really had nothing else. My entire high school existence had revolved around him. All my friends were just his frat brothers; my own social circle had died years ago. Even my college choices had been shaped entirely around his wishes.

I locked my phone and lay flat on my back.

A memory suddenly hit me. It was winter during eighth grade. He was pulling me by the hand across the frozen track. He had said, "Chloe, if I ever hurt you, I'd never be able to forgive myself."

I had told him, "You'll never hurt me."

The fourteen-year-old me had genuinely believed that.

The eighteen-year-old me, lying in the dark, just felt fiercely sorry for that fourteen-year-old girl.

When I woke up the next morning, the very first thing I did was delete Zane's birthday from my phone's calendar.

Then, I started packing.

Three cardboard boxes sat in the corner of my room. They were filled with things he had left at my house over the years—a few hoodies, an old game controller, some photo booth strips of us, and those cheap ten-dollar stuffed animals he’d casually tossed my way. I had treated them all like treasures. Looking at them now, they were just a pile of trash.

I sealed each box heavily with packing tape, took a Sharpie, and scrawled one word across them: Donation.

Back in my room, I opened the group chat named Zane & Bros.

Over nine hundred unread messages. I didn't scroll up; I didn't need to look to know what they were saying.

I typed out a few words:

"Good luck with the Porsche, Zane. You'll need it."

Sent.

Left the group chat.

Deleted the conversation.

Then I stood up and walked into the bathroom.

In the mirror, the silver chain was still resting against my collarbone.

He had given it to me on my fourteenth birthday. A little four-leaf clover pendant. It was cheap. He had drawn a crooked flower on the outside of the box with a blue marker.

He told me he'd buy me a diamond someday.

I wore it for four years.

I pulled open the drawer and dug out a pair of eyebrow scissors.

Snip.

The chain snapped.

The four-leaf clover fell into the ceramic sink, spinning twice before it stopped. I picked it up and dropped it into the trash can.

Pressed flat at the very bottom of my desk drawer were two pieces of paper.

An acceptance letter to State University. And a long-distance bus ticket.

I had secretly applied last week. If Zane had come looking for me, I would have processed the transfer immediately. I even had the ticket ready.

I ripped both papers to shreds and dumped them into the trash.

4:00 AM.

Just as my ride pulled up at the airport, my phone buzzed.

A text from Zane.

"Stop playing dead. You think I’m gonna beg you?"

I stared at the text.

He didn't ask where I was. He didn't ask what I was thinking. He didn't even ask what Good luck with the Porsche meant.

He was just saying: Stop faking it and come back.

I looked at the screen for about five seconds.

Then, I popped open the tray on the side of my phone and pulled out the SIM card I had used for exactly ten years.

I positioned it between my fingertips and bent it hard.

Snap.

I tossed it straight into an airport trash can.

The gate agent looked at my boarding pass. "Heading to New York?"

"Yeah."

"Flying solo?"

"Yeah."

She smiled and handed the boarding pass back to me.

I walked down the jet bridge, never looking back.

Five hours later.

Zane rolled over in bed, groggily reaching for his phone.

He tapped into Chloe's chat and typed a few words: "Did you block me?"

Sent.

Below the text bubble, a tiny line of gray text appeared:

Not Delivered.

He frowned and fired off another message: "Are you seriously doing this?"

It still didn't go through.

He backed out and tapped back in. The top of the chat still showed her name, but that line of gray text refused to disappear.

He pressed the screen and called her number.

There was no ringing dial tone.

It went straight to voicemail.

An automated female voice spoke: "The wireless customer you are trying to reach is not available."

Zane froze for a second.

Not a busy signal. Not out of service. Not available.

He set his phone down and stared at the ceiling.

"Fake," he muttered. "You changed your number, huh."

But deep down, he knew something was off.

Chloe had used that number for ten years. She had told him she would never change it.

He rolled over and shoved the phone face down beneath his pillow.

What he didn't know was that my SIM card was already snapped in two, lying out in an airport trash can.

In the past, I had always wanted Zane to win. Now, I was going to win for myself.