SCARLETT POV
The cake box is slipping.
I shift the Thai food bag to my other hand and use my hip to keep the chocolate cake—Tyler's favorite, the expensive one from Marcel's—from sliding off my arm. My keys jingle as I hunt for the right one. Tyler's apartment key, the one he gave me six months ago with that perfect smile that made my stomach flip.
"For emergencies," he'd said, kissing my forehead. "Or surprise visits."
Tonight is definitely a surprise. It's our two-year anniversary, and Tyler thinks I'm at the library studying for midterms. But I finished early because I'm Scarlett Hayes, and I always finish early. Straight A's don't earn themselves. Mom didn't clean toilets and scrub floors for eighteen years so I could slack off.
I slide the key into the lock, already imagining Tyler's face when he sees me. Maybe he'll finally say he loves me. Two years together, and he still hasn't said it. But tonight feels different. Tonight feels special.
The door swings open silently.
That's when I hear it.
A sound that doesn't belong. A woman's laugh—high and breathy—coming from Tyler's bedroom. My bedroom too, kind of. I've slept here dozens of times, always leaving before sunrise because Tyler says he "needs his space."
My brain tries to make excuses. Maybe it's his TV. Maybe it's his sister visiting. Maybe it's—
Another sound. Definitely not the TV.
My hands go numb. The cake box tilts. I catch it just before it falls, and the movement makes the plastic Thai food bag crinkle loudly.
The sounds from the bedroom stop.
I should leave. I should run. Instead, my feet carry me forward like I'm watching someone else's life fall apart. The bedroom door is cracked open, and through the gap, I see something that rewrites the last two years of my life.
Tyler. My Tyler, with his perfect hair and his perfect smile and his perfect lies.
In bed.
With Jennifer.
My roommate Jennifer. The girl who borrowed my notes last week. The girl who helped me pick out this dress this morning, who said I looked "so pretty" and "Tyler's so lucky."
They're not just in bed. They're tangled together, and Tyler's hands are in her hair the way he never touches mine, and his face has an expression I've never seen—wild and free and nothing like the careful way he kisses me.
The cake box slips from my hands.
It hits the floor with a wet splat that sounds like my heart breaking.
Tyler's head snaps toward the door. Our eyes meet.
He doesn't look guilty. He looks annoyed.
"Scarlett?" He doesn't even bother covering up. "What are you doing here?"
What am I doing here? In the apartment where I've cooked him dinner, done his laundry, written half his papers when he was "too stressed"?
"It's our anniversary," I whisper. My voice sounds small and stupid.
Jennifer sits up, pulling the sheet around her. My sheet. The one I washed last week. She has the decency to look embarrassed, but not sorry. There's a difference.
"Babe, this isn't what it looks like—" Tyler starts.
"Don't." The word comes out sharp. "Don't you dare."
He sighs like I'm being dramatic. Like I'm the problem. "Okay, fine. You want the truth? You're too much, Scarlett. Too perfect. Too boring. Too vanilla. I need someone who takes risks, who's exciting. Jennifer gets that."
Vanilla. The word hits me like a slap.
I've spent two years being perfect for him. Perfect girlfriend. Perfect student. Perfect everything. I learned to like his terrible music. I laughed at his stupid jokes. I had sex exactly how he wanted even when it did nothing for me. I made myself smaller and quieter and more convenient.
And I'm too vanilla.
"How long?" I ask.
Jennifer looks away. Tyler shrugs. "Does it matter?"
"How. Long."
"Six months," Jennifer whispers. "Since New Year's."
Six months. Half a year of lies. I've been living with her, sharing my shampoo and my secrets, and she's been sleeping with my boyfriend. They've been laughing at me. Poor, stupid, vanilla Scarlett who never suspected a thing.
The Thai food bag falls from my hand. Containers split open, green curry bleeding across Tyler's expensive carpet. I should apologize. Perfect Scarlett would apologize.
But Perfect Scarlett just died on this floor next to the chocolate cake.
"Get out," Tyler says. Not angry—bored. Like I'm wasting his time.
I turn and walk. My legs feel disconnected from my body. Behind me, I hear Jennifer say something, and Tyler laughs. They're already forgetting me.
I make it to the hallway before my vision blurs. I make it to the stairs before the tears come. I make it to the parking lot before I have to stop and bend over, gasping like someone punched me in the stomach.
My phone buzzes. A text from Tyler: "Don't be dramatic. We can talk tomorrow."
I stare at those words until they stop making sense.
Then I see the next text. Also from Tyler, but this one was sent two hours ago. To someone named "J" with a heart emoji.
"She's studying late. Come over. Miss you."
My hands shake as I scroll up. Weeks of messages. Months. Planning hookups around my schedule. Laughing about how I "never suspect anything." Tyler telling Jennifer that I'm "sweet but not exciting enough for long-term."
There's a voice message. Against every instinct, I press play.
Tyler's voice, drunk and mean: "Scarlett's the kind of girl you marry because she's safe. But Jennifer's the kind you actually want. Why do you think I haven't said 'I love you' yet? Because I don't."
The phone slips from my hand.
I sit there in the parking lot as the sky turns dark, as students walk past giving me weird looks, as my entire life rewrites itself. Every kiss was a lie. Every "I care about you" was placeholder words. Two years of my life, gone.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Maya, my best friend: "Emergency. Come to O'Malley's bar NOW. Don't argue. Just come."
I stare at the message. Maya doesn't know about tonight. She doesn't know anything yet.
But somehow, sitting in this parking lot covered in cake and tears and the ruins of who I used to be, going to a bar sounds perfect.
I stand up. My legs wobble but hold.
Vanilla Scarlett is dead. Good. I hated her anyway.
I get in my car and drive toward the bar, toward Maya, toward whatever happens to girls who stop being perfect.
I don't see the text that comes through as I'm driving. The one from an unknown number:
"I saw what happened. Tyler's a fool. You deserve better. Meet me at the Grandmont Hotel bar tonight. 9 PM. Come alone. I promise you'll want to forget everything. —A Friend"
The message glows on my passenger seat, unread.
Waiting.