Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
My eyes narrow on her. “The end. That easy?”
“No,” she says with a soft smile. “Not that easy, but I was one of the lucky ones. I got out before I could get hurt. That’s why I ran, because I wouldn’t have been able to say the same the very next day when I turned fourteen and was then wed to him.”
“Unfuckingbelievable,” I breathe out, suddenly feeling the need for a stronger substance than beer. “And after? What happened to you?”
“My parents’ rights were severed, not that it mattered. They never forgave me for bringing down the church, so they didn’t want me back after. I went into foster care, which can be a shit show, but I was very fortunate. I landed with a really sweet older couple in Ohio. They had no children of their own and loved fostering kids. While they didn’t adopt me, they let me stay with them until I graduated high school.”
“I don’t even know what to say.” My brain races, a million questions pinging the inside of my skull, but I don’t ask a single one. Instead, I say, “You’re quite impressive.”
She smiles brightly. “Thank you. So are you.”
The compliment pleases me because she’s not pandering to me. I shift on the barstool, rolling my shoulders once, as if that might shake the awareness creeping in.
It doesn’t.
A realization clicks into place. “This”—I gesture vaguely between us—“you don’t do this for everyone.”
I don’t know why I say it out loud. Maybe because I need to hear the answer. Maybe because part of me already knows it and doesn’t quite trust it.
“Have a drink with someone to get to know them?” she asks with a wink. “Do it all the time.”
Her tone is easy, almost dismissive, but her eyes stay on mine.
I roll my eyes, more reflex than annoyance. “No. Talk about your past.”
She doesn’t flinch. Merely lifts one shoulder in a small, unapologetic shrug. “It’s public knowledge. I don’t hide it. You could have found this information if you’d googled me.”
I study her face, looking for the crack that exposes her regret. There’s none. Only pure ownership, and despite myself, a surge of respect for her washes through me. “Yeah, but you chose to share it with me. Tonight.”
“To bridge trust.” Juno stares at me for a long moment. “You hate the spotlight, and I don’t think that’s about humility. I think you’ve learned that visibility comes at a cost, and that’s why you avoid it.”
My spine straightens before I can stop it, every instinct on alert. That’s not a casual observation. That’s a diagnosis, and it’s uncomfortably accurate.
My pulse spikes. “Someone did their homework.”
Juno doesn’t smile at that, nor does she make excuses or apologize. “Your ex-fiancée’s social media told the story. I didn’t have to dig deep.”
There it is.
She didn’t say the name but didn’t need to.
As much as Juno and her purpose for being here irritated me, it oddly doesn’t bother me that she dug into my past. Like hers, it’s public knowledge, and there’s nothing to hide.
Not quite like hers, it’s over. The end.
“I’m not interested in the drama,” she says. “That’s not my work. In fact, it’s noise, and that’s beneath me.”
Her voice drops on that last word, almost disdainful. She holds my gaze, unwavering, like she’s giving me the space to decide whether I believe her. “I think I understand what you value and why you’re careful.”
And that’s the thing.
She isn’t asking me to confirm it.
She isn’t asking for anything at all.
She’s simply letting me know she sees me—and for the first time since this documentary began, I don’t feel exposed by that.
I feel… understood.
I take a pull of my beer. “Cherry loves attention,” I say after a beat. “And I knew that about her from the start. I guess when you’re in love and committing to another person, you overlook those things. But I eventually learned that I didn’t want to live under the microscope.”
The words come out evenly, almost rehearsed—not because I’ve practiced them, but because I’ve thought them a thousand times in quieter moments.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Juno’s voice is soft, not pitying. She doesn’t interrupt the space between us with overblown sympathy.
“Don’t be,” I reply with a shrug. “When I ended it, it was more relief than anything.”
I didn’t realize how true that still is until I say it out loud. Relief—like stepping out of a room that had been too bright, too loud, too crowded for too long.
“Were you angry when it ended?”
I lift my gaze to Juno then, because she is interviewing me whether or not she wants to call it that. She’s mapping the emotional terrain.
But telling the story of why I hate the limelight doesn’t really bother me. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of and certainly no regrets.
“No.” I shake my head. “No anger. I was just… done.”