Chapter 8: The audacity of my own hangover

I slid down the wood of my bedroom door until my butt hit the floor, my knees pulling up to my chest. “Tristan and I are in love with each other.” I covered my face with both hands and let out a sound that was half-groan, half-dying animal. “Did those words actually come out of my mouth?” I whispered to the empty room. “Like… physically? Into the air?” I peeked through my fingers at my desk chair like it might judge me. “I’m unhinged. That’s it. I’ve officially cracked under academic and emotional pressure.” Telling Mabel we were dating was one thing. A defensive shield. But telling her we were ‘in love’? Tristan Hale didn’t even love hockey half the time—he just aggressively dominated it. If he found out I dropped the L-word to his ex-turned-twin’s-girlfriend, he wouldn’t just smirk. He’d probably hold it over my head until graduation. My legs felt like jelly, the same shaky way they’d gone when Tristan landed on top of me after the lamp crashed. God, that moment kept replaying in my head like a bad t****k loop I couldn’t swipe away from. His weight, the heat of him, the way his eyes had flashed from annoyance to something sharper when I’d blurted out the boyfriend lie. And then Nolan’s face twisting like I’d punched him in the throat. Part of me was thrilled at it. The other part wanted to crawl into the wall and never come out. I pressed my forehead against my knees and rocked a little, the way I used to when mom would go off on one of her tirades about how I was “ruining the family image” just by existing. I’d dragged Tristan into my mess, offered him three months of fake dating like it was some grand bargain, and then I’d upgraded it to love in front of the one person who’d use it as ammunition. My stomach growled, loud and obnoxious. Of course. Even when my life was imploding, my body still demanded basic functions. I stared at the takeout menus pinned to my corkboard. Chinese. Greasy noodles, spring rolls, something that would fill the hollow spot where my dignity used to live. “Fine,” I muttered, pushing myself up on wobbly legs. “Takeout it is. Emotional eating is a valid coping mechanism. Maya would back me up.” I grabbed my phone, ordered way too much lo mein and dumplings for one person, and hit confirm before I could talk myself out of the extra egg rolls. The app said twenty minutes. Perfect. Enough time to pretend I wasn’t replaying the way Tristan’s grin had faltered when I’d said those words. Like he’d been… surprised? Intrigued? Or just calculating how to use it against me later? I paced the tiny room while I waited, adjusting my glasses even though they didn’t need it. The broken lamp still lay in pieces by the desk, a rough reminder of how fast everything had spiraled. I kicked at a shard of glass, then immediately regretted it when it skittered under the bed. “Great. Add clumsiness to the list of reasons why Nolan never chose you.” The delivery notification pinged. I slipped on my hoodie—hood up, like that would hide me from the universe—and cracked the door. The hallway smelled like someone’s desperate attempt at air freshener. I stepped out, ears straining for any sign of Nolan or Mabel. Silence. Good. Maybe they’d gone somewhere to process the bomb I’d dropped. Or maybe they were in his room right now, laughing at how delusional I was. I padded down to the lobby, signed for the bag, and was turning back when voices drifted from the stairwell. Two girls from the floor below, the ones who always huddled over their phones like it was a crystal ball. I froze behind the corner, heart slamming so hard I could feel it in my teeth. “…group chat is blowing up,” one said, voice low and thrilled. “They’re saying there’s a big reveal coming tonight. Something about the Hale twins and that girl who lives next to Nolan.” My stomach dropped like I’d missed a step on the stairs. That girl. As in me. I knew Mabel had a big mouth—she’d practically weaponized it during our confrontation. One whispered L-word and the whole school probably thought I was some deranged twin-hopper. The gossip blog from last semester had already painted me as “the desperate best friend.” This would be nuclear. I pressed my back to the wall, the takeout bag crinkling in my grip. Wait it out, I told myself. Maybe it’s not about you. Maybe it’s about Tristan’s latest on-ice fight or Nolan’s latest reconciliation with Mabel. But my gut knew better. This is Mabel at work. She’d probably recorded our argument or twisted it into some viral thread. The girls’ voices faded as they headed outside, laughing about how “it was going to be juicy.” I waited another five minutes in that hallway, pretending to scroll my phone while my noodles got cold. Nothing. No notifications, no dramatic group chat explosion on my end—thank God I wasn’t in most of those chats. Still, the paranoia stuck like a mantra. By the time I slunk back to my room, my shoulders were so tight they ached. “Shower,” I said out loud, because talking to myself was apparently my new normal. “Hot water fixes everything. Or at least makes you too pruny to care.” I stripped fast, avoiding the mirror because I didn’t want to see the girl who’d just declared love for an asshole. The water hit scalding, steam filling the tiny bathroom until I could barely breathe. I stood under the spray, letting it pound my scalp, and tried to untangle the knot in my chest. What if Tristan found out what I’d said to Mabel? Would he laugh that sharp, disbelieving laugh from earlier? Or would those eyes of his go dark and dangerous, the way they had when he’d laid out his three conditions? I squeezed shampoo into my palm harder than necessary. “Stop it, Juniper. He’s a means to an end. Fake boyfriend. Jealousy bait. Not… not whatever this flutter is.” The water sluiced down my back, but it didn’t wash away the memory of his body braced over mine on the floor. I rinsed off, skin pink from the heat, and wrapped myself in a towel that smelled like my cheap lavender detergent. The mirror was fogged over. Good. I didn’t need to face myself yet. My hair dripped onto my shoulders as I padded back into the bedroom, the cool air raising goosebumps on my arms. The takeout bag sat on the desk, untouched. I should eat, then study. I should do anything except obsess over a fake relationship that already felt like it was wrapping barbed wire around my ribs. That’s when I saw it. My phone, which I’d left on the floor near the door, was buzzing against the floorboards like an angry hornet. The screen lit up in pulses, casting blue light across my sneakers. I didn’t grab it right away. I just stared, dread pooling cold in my gut. The vibrations felt too insistent, too urgent. Like whatever was on the other end already knew I was standing there in a towel, hair dripping, pretending I hadn’t just lit the match on my own life. I crouched slowly, knees cracking, and tilted the phone with one finger. The notification glowed up at me. Maya: JUNE. OPEN i********: RIGHT NOW. WHAT DID MABEL JUST POST ON HER CLOSE FRIENDS?!