The silence hit like a bomb. Deafening. Heavy.
I couldn’t hear anything anymore. Just the dull, sharp ringing in my ears. My vision blurred at the edges, but the words on the screen were clear.
“Good job with the fat girl. I’m proud of you.”
I could feel every pair of eyes in the room turn to me. They were just staring. Waiting to see what I’d do. Waiting to see how the joke would end.
I stood up. I didn’t feel my legs under me. It was like floating, like falling. I didn’t know which.
Marcus was already at the TV, yanking the HDMI cable out like that could somehow erase the message. “That wasn’t supposed to—”
I didn’t hear the rest.
I pushed through the circle of stunned bodies and out the door, heart pounding, throat burning.
“Betty, wait!” His voice chased me down the driveway.
I felt his hand on my arm.
I spun around and screamed, “Don’t touch me!”
He stopped cold, hands up like I was a wild animal.
“I didn’t say it,” he said. “That was my dad.”
“And you didn’t stop it,” I snapped. “You just stood there.”
“I was shocked. I didn’t know that would pop up—”
“Oh my god,” I laughed bitterly, a sharp, awful sound. “You think this is about the message? It’s not just what it said, Marcus. It’s that it was true.”
His eyes widened. “It’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me.” My voice cracked.
He reached for me again. “Betty—”
“Tell me it’s not true!” I shouted, voice breaking. “Tell me I wasn’t just a job. That this didn’t start because of my dad and his NBA connections. That you didn’t just use me to get to him.”
“I didn’t plan for it to happen like this,” he said, eyes glistening. “It started that way, okay? But it’s not like that now. I care about you.”
I stared at him, waiting.
Say more. Say something that would make it okay.
But he just looked at me. Guilty. Silent.
“You didn’t even deny it,” I whispered. My chest was tight, like I couldn’t breathe. “You couldn’t even pretend.”
“Betty…”
“You let me fall for you,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “You let me think I mattered. You made me believe someone could actually want me.”
“You do matter. I swear, I didn’t expect any of this. You’re not a plan anymore—”
“I’m not anything anymore!” I screamed, my voice echoing into the quiet neighborhood.
I covered my face with both hands, shoulders shaking as the sobs hit. I ugly cried right there in the street, mascara running, chest heaving. “You made me feel like I was enough. Like I could finally stop hiding who I am. Like I didn’t have to keep apologizing for existing.”
“I meant everything I said,” he whispered.
“But you didn’t mean what you didn’t say!” I shouted. “When your dad called me fat—you said nothing. You let the silence be your answer.”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
I stared at him. “That’s not good enough.”
He looked broken. Angry. Lost.
“Do you think I don’t hate myself enough already?” I said. “Do you think I don’t wake up every day wishing I could be different? Do you know how hard it was to let myself believe you could want me, really want me, and not just as some game?”
“I do want you,” he said, voice hoarse. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“Well, you did.”
The words hung between us like a blade.
I turned.
He called my name again, softer this time. “Please don’t go. Don’t walk away like this.”
I paused.
But I didn’t look back.
“I hate you, Marcus,” I said.
And I walked down the sidewalk, tears streaming down my face, mascara smudged, arms wrapped around myself like they could hold me together.