VIVIAN
Dawn breaks over LA. Pink and gold light filters through my apartment windows. Too bright. Too cheerful for how I feel.
I wake up alone in my bed, still wearing last night's dress. Makeup smeared on my pillow. Hair a mess. The taste of champagne and regret in my mouth.
And the memory of what I did.
What we did.
I close my eyes, but that makes it worse. Because then I can feel it. His hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. The way we tore at each other like we were trying to destroy or save each other. Maybe both.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Twenty-three missed calls. Thirty-seven text messages.
Most from Ethan.
Where did you go?
Vivian, answer your phone
I'm worried. Please just tell me you're okay
I'm going home. Call me when you get this
The last one, sent at 2 AM: I know you were with him. We need to talk.
My stomach turns. I stumble to the bathroom. Lean over the toilet. Nothing comes up but bile and shame.
