Chapter 8: Running (and Partying) From the Past

I grabbed all my stuff and fled back to New York with Jamie. On the plane, I blocked Caleb’s email and quit via HR. Honestly, after half a month, I hadn’t made many contacts at work.

Jamie sat beside me, cute upturned nose, soft handsome features. Feeling reckless, I asked, “Take a selfie with me?”

Jamie was checking his ex’s Instagram. He agreed absentmindedly, then looked up. *Click*—I snapped a pic of us and sent it to the work group. Then I left the group.

Jamie’s face went pale: “You posted it in the work group?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Caleb’s work Messenger is in there.”

Jamie was shocked: “You never added his Messenger?”

I shook my head. Caleb’s avatar looked like a robot. And he never spoke in the group. Who’d dare add him? Even if you did, he probably wouldn’t accept. So we always communicated by work email.

Jamie sighed, but also approved: “If you’re going to have a scandal, at least it’s with me.” Then he handed me a tissue. “Don’t cry, I’ll find you a good man when we get back.”

I wiped my nose: “Locking my heart away.”

But honestly, as soon as we landed, I dumped my luggage on Jamie’s housekeeper and we both collapsed into a model’s arms and bawled.

Jamie, that troublemaker, was out of control in New York City. Especially after too much takeout, he insisted on getting some real New York pizza. So we partied like maniacs. I couldn’t keep up and went back to the hotel first.

Right before I passed out, my phone lit up.

Camellia: “…….”

Me: “…….”

Camellia: “Where are you?”

Great, just got back from California and my dad still won’t give up on setting me up with some old guy. I didn’t reply. Turned off my phone and messaged Jamie: “Don’t tell anyone where I am, including my dad.”

Jamie: “Roger!”

Randomly scrolling my phone—did that scumbag Caleb really not try to contact me? I even posted a pic with another man in the work group. Forget it, maybe I was just a fling.

I tried digging up dirt on the Foster family online, but it was like an ant shaking a tree. I gave up.

The air in my hotel room was stale, the sheets too crisp. Jamie texted me a pizza emoji, then a GIF of the Statue of Liberty dabbing. I buried myself under the covers, listening to the city noise—horns, laughter, a siren in the distance. I didn’t know if I wanted to cry, scream, or just eat a whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the dark. No fairytale ending, just me, a melted mascara streak, and a blocked number list growing longer by the hour.