Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
And now this?
Someone vandalized my car. On school property. During school hours, so now I feel unsafe. There’s no security anymore.
Because I’m dating a man who had the audacity to say he liked me online. That’s all it took and suddenly, I’m a target.
I pull into my driveway and sit there, engine ticking, breath shaky.
I was so excited to see Lucky tonight.
I have fresh mozzarella in the fridge for a caprese salad and I was going to break out the grill for the chicken. I created a playlist and had it queued. I was looking forward to curling up with him after dinner like we had no past and nothing to fear.
But now?
Now I can’t even look at his name on my phone without breaking. I’m not built for this. I don’t belong in his world. I’m definitely not built for this kind of scrutiny, this kind of attention.
I close my eyes, drop my forehead to the steering wheel, and whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
Then I sit in the wreck of my own thoughts and cry for a little longer.
♦
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One minute I’m curled up on the couch, hugging a throw pillow like it might hold me together, and the next I’m jolting awake at the sound of banging—sharp, persistent, unmistakably someone at the door.
My heart kicks up and for a second, I’m disoriented. The living room is dark except for the faint glow from a lamp I must’ve left on. My face is tight and puffy, eyes gritty from crying and sleeping too hard. Buttermilk is across the room, happily murdering a stack of magazines that had been on the coffee table. Torn pages flutter across the floor like confetti.
The knocking comes again, more urgent this time.
I push off the couch and shuffle toward the door, rubbing at my eyes. When I peek through the window, my stomach plummets.
Lucky.
He’s pacing on the porch, hands on his hips, back lit by the soft porch light. The second he hears the deadbolt turn, he stops, turning toward me with concern etched all over his face.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low and intense.
I squint at him, still half-asleep and caught off guard. “I’m fine. Why are you here?”
His brow furrows. “Because you texted me to cancel dinner without an explanation. That’s bordering on ghosting.”
I blink, the accusation hitting harder than it should. “No. Of course I’m not ghosting you. Can’t I just… not have dinner with you one night without being interrogated?”
“Sure,” he says, the word tight and clipped. “But that’s not you. You don’t cancel plans last minute and disappear. When we talked last night, you couldn’t wait to see me. So what happened?”
I don’t mean to get angry. I’m too drained for that. But it flares anyway, sharp and hot and aimed right at him.
“You want to know what happened?” I snap, stepping outside and grabbing his hand. “Come on, then. Let me show you.”
His confusion deepens, but he follows without protest as I lead him down the porch steps and into the driveway.
I walk to the driver’s side of the car, illuminated by a security light, and point. “This,” I say flatly. “This is what happened.”
Lucky stares at the cold, cruel message spray-painted on my car.
His mouth opens, then closes again, like a fish out of water. He’s speechless and I know exactly how he’s feeling, having no ability to voice the horror of it.
“Do you get it now?” I whisper. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Winnie…,” he starts, but I shake my head.
“I know you’re going to tell me to ignore it. That people are assholes and this comes with the territory. But it’s not just comments anymore. It’s not just strangers with private profiles and too much time. It’s huge influencers, way bigger than I could ever hope to be, calling me out in ten-minute rants and tagging me so my followers see it. It’s people physically coming after me on school property and cornering me in bathrooms.”
I pause, breath catching as pain slices through my chest. “And yeah… maybe you’re getting backlash too, but it doesn’t touch you. You’re a famous professional athlete with millions of fans. I’m just a kindergarten teacher who was lucky enough to have a side hustle that could give me extra financial security. So I’m the one paying for it. Not you. Me.”
He runs a hand down his face. “Then let’s stop posting. Let’s keep us private. That’s an easy enough solution.”
My laugh comes out hollow. “Don’t you get it? This isn’t just about us. They’re not just targeting our couple content—they’re hijacking my regular content. They’re flooding my skin care reviews. My book recs. My classroom supply videos. They’re mocking my voice, my face, my freaking rabbit. Big-name influencers are making drag videos about me and you, and those go out to millions. I haven’t posted in six days because I’m scared, Lucky. And this”—I gesture around us—“this house, this life? I can afford it because of TikTok. It’s my job.”