[Betty’s POV]
* Present *
I stumble through the front door, my world spinning in fragments of humiliation and betrayal. My lungs burn with each ragged breath, tears blurring everything into a kaleidoscope of pain.
I should’ve never gone. I should’ve known better.
But I let myself believe, for just a moment, that I belonged. That I could be something more than just the girl they whispered about behind my back.
And now look at me.
By the time I reached the house, I was barely holding myself together. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the door handle, my vision too blurred from tears to see straight.
The second I stepped inside, the warmth of the house enveloped me, but it didn’t bring me comfort.
She was there. Jeanette. Stacey's mother.
Standing in the kitchen like a statue, watches me with those cold, calculating eyes – the same eyes her daughter inherited.
Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, eyes scanning over me without a hint of surprise.
I froze in the doorway, breath still hitching. My fingers curled into the ruined fabric of my dress. For one second—one painful, fleeting second—I let myself believe she’d say something.
Maybe she’d ask if I was okay. Maybe she’d tell me it wasn’t true, that it had all been some cruel misunderstanding.
Maybe she'll be the mother I so desperately need right now.
But she didn’t.
Her gaze flickered across my face, pausing on my smudged mascara, my red, swollen eyes, my shaking hands.
Then she looked away. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
I sucked in a breath, my voice barely a whisper. "I’m fine."
The lie tastes like ash in my mouth, choking me as it comes out.
We both know it's bullshit. My hands are shaking, my dress is wrinkled from where his fingers gripped it, and I can barely stand straight.
My feet carry me upstairs somehow, each step an eternity until I finally reach my room. The door clicks shut behind me, and something inside me shatters.
My legs give out, and I collapse onto the floor, the cold hardwood a stark contrast to the heat of my tears.
Mom's dress. The beautiful vintage piece she left me, the one thing I had that made me feel close to her – now it's ruined. My fingers trace the torn seam where it had caught on something as I ran, and a sound escapes me that's more animal than human.
Tears spilled down my cheeks, soaking into the delicate fabric as I pressed it to my face, muffling the sobs that wouldn’t stop. My whole body shook, wracked with the weight of tonight, with the humiliation burning through my veins like poison.
I stumbled to my feet, my body feeling too heavy, too weak, and made my way into the bathroom. The mirror reflected someone I didn’t recognize.
Mascara streaked down my cheeks. Eyes swollen and red. Lips trembling.
A total mess.
The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I am – a joke. A bet. A pathetic girl who dared to dream she could be something more.
The worst part isn't the humiliation. It isn't even the bet. It's that kiss.
My fingers touch my lips before I can stop them, and I hate myself for it.
Hate that I can still feel the desperate press of his mouth against mine, the way his hands gripped my waist like he was drowning and I was air.
Hate that for one stupid, as beautiful as terrifying moment, I kissed him back.
I let myself believe that all those moments – the way he caught me in the library, the way he saved me in the cheerleader tryouts, the late-night study sessions, the subtle touches that felt like electricity – meant something.
But they were all just calculated moves in his sick game.
And Stacey. God, Stacey. The way she stood there, my diary in her manicured hands, reading my most private thoughts to everyone.
The victorious glint in her eyes as she revealed the bet, watching me crumble with the satisfaction of a predator taking down its prey.
My hands shake as I reach for my phone, muscle memory dialing Brent's number before I can think better of it. The voicemail greeting hits me like a physical blow.
"Hey, it's Brent. I'm probably studying or whatever. Leave a message?"
His voice, so familiar, so far away, breaks something loose inside me. A sob tears from my throat, raw and painful.
I need him here.
Need his stupid jokes and warm hugs and the way he always knows exactly what to say to make the world feel less overwhelming.
But he's not here. He's somewhere in the wilderness, unreachable, while I'm drowning in a sea of my own mistakes and thoughts.
I slide down the bathroom wall, still clutching the phone like a lifeline. The cold tile seeps through my ruined dress, but I barely feel it. Everything hurts too much to distinguish individual pains anymore.
"I wish you were here," I whisper to the empty room, to the ghost of my best friend who can't hear me. "I need you, Brent. I can't... I can't do this alone."
But I am alone. That's the truth that sits heavy in my chest as exhaustion finally starts to claim me.
I'm alone in this house that isn't home, surrounded by people who see me as nothing more than entertainment.
As a pathetic fat girl who dared to think she could be loved.