Addicted 2 U

Summer Break Ruined

GWEN

~ FEBRUARY, SEVEN YEARS LATER ~

I’m exhausted before the final bell even rings.

The students are feral today—loud, needy, argumentative, and somehow all convinced that AP US Government is supposed to be fun. By the time I escape the building, my head throbs with the kind of pulsing ache that promises to stay with me all night. All I want is the sanctuary of my car, a silent drive home, and a microwaved dinner I’ll eat standing over the sink like a raccoon.

Then I get to grade papers until two in the morning. And then wake up again at six to do it all over.

Every day feels like a photocopy of the last. Same fluorescent lights. Same lukewarm coffee. Same vacant stares from teenagers who think “federalism” is a skin disease.

Sometimes—more often than I’d ever admit—I think about running away. Just disappearing from the endless cycles and responsibilities and routines that feel like a cage I built for myself.

But I don’t run. I keep showing up. That’s what an “educator” does, right?

The word tastes like chalk dust.

It’s been this way ever since Jay left for Europe with Caleb. My best friend turned accidental ex turned long-distance emotional support gremlin. Seven years later and I still don’t know how to categorize him.

Seven years, and I still can’t stop the memory of that night—the breakup—from slicing through my ribs when I least expect it.

“I’m breaking up with you… because you’re breaking your own heart trying to pretend she isn’t in it.”

I swallow hard at the echo of his voice.

I told him to leave. I screamed it. And he did.

And I stood there, in the hollow of my tiny post-college apartment, tasting salt and pretending it wasn’t heartbreak.

I chose him.

I chose the safe thing.

The right thing.

But somehow, I still ended up alone in a room filled with her name.

Sara.

Even now, the thought of her is a bruise I’ve learned not to touch too often. Not because it hurts less, but because I’m tired of hurting at all.

I shake off the memory and keep walking, my keys clutched tight in my fist. I’m nearly outside—nearly free—when the intercom snaps to life overhead.

“Ms. Elwell, please report to the office.”

I freeze mid-stride.

Oh you have got to be kidding me.

My shoulders slump so dramatically I probably look like a tragic Victorian orphan. I consider pretending I didn’t hear it. But the cameras in the hall would betray me, and my paycheck depends on pretending to be a responsible adult.

So I turn around and drag myself back into the building, every step heavier than the last.

Mr. Andrew McNeill is waiting inside his office like a discount Bond villain. He stands when I enter—as if we’re close, as if he likes me—and extends his arms like he’s about to hug me.

I step back so fast my shoe squeaks.

“Mr.McNeill,” I say stiffly, polite but not inviting. “You needed something?”

“Oh, Gwendolyn, please,” he chuckles, ignoring my boundary like it’s optional. “Call me Andrew.”

Absolutely not.

“And sit!” he insists with the enthusiasm of someone who thinks himself charming. “Make yourself at home!”

I sit, but the tension in my shoulders could be used to tune a violin. He beams at me like I’ve just agreed to marry his son.

“So!” he begins, clasping his hands. “Wonderful news. You’ve been invited to a teacher’s awards event in Los Angeles this summer. Not only are you nominated for a McKenney Award, but they’ve selected you for an intensive training program. Very prestigious. Very exclusive. Very exciting!”

My brain short-circuits.

A teacher’s award? For me?

Why? For what? For suffering?

Then the important part hits me.

“First week of summer.”

No.

Absolutely not.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I already booked a flight to Europe. Jay and I planned this months ago. Caleb is on tour, so we’re supposed to—look, you can send someone else?”

His smile thins, stretching unnaturally like warm taffy.

“Gwendolyn… this is mandatory.”

There it is.

The catch. The trap. The reason he called me instead of literally any other AP teacher who actually loves their job.

He launches into a dramatic speech about the school “getting on the map” and what an honor it is, and how I should be grateful.

I stare at him, dead inside.

“I’ve never even heard of the McKenney awards,” I point out. “Ever.”

He sighs. Steps around the desk. Perches on the corner like a coupon-clipping George Clooney.

“Ms. Elwell,” he says, voice dropping. “If you don’t attend, you will be terminated.”

My stomach plummets through the floor.

He continues, practically gleeful. “They’ll reimburse you for the ticket change. They’re covering your trip. It’s free professional development. I strongly suggest you take the deal.”

My pulse pounds in my ears.

I want to argue. I want to fight. I want to grab his stupid ceramic paperweight eagle and throw it through the window.

But I can’t lose my job.

Not when I’m barely staying afloat as it is.

“Fine,” I say. The word tastes like defeat. “I’ll go.”

-----

~ FIRST WEEK OF JUNE ~

This is supposed to be the day I go to Paris.

I should be standing beside Jay on some cobblestone street, eating something buttery and sinful before he drags me into a museum I’ll pretend not to enjoy.

Instead, I’m sitting in the departure terminal for a flight to Los Angeles with a conference badge buried somewhere in my carry-on like a ticking time bomb.

Everything is packed. I ended my lease. I told myself this summer would be a reset, a chance to breathe for the first time in years.

But Mr. McNeill ruined that in a single conversation.

I’m going to destroy that man someday. Not soon—vengeance requires patience—but someday.

The flight is uneventful, which feels unfair somehow. I want turbulence. A lost suitcase. A dramatic, cinematic excuse to turn around and go home. But no. Fate is committed to this bit.

When I step off the plane, the LA heat hits me like a wet, angry slap.

I loathe heat. I melt like a cheap candle in temperatures above 75. My hair expands. My soul wilts. Everything feels sticky and personal.

I hurry toward the exit, praying the hotel has air conditioning that actually works. In my haze of annoyance and sweat, I don’t see the woman until I crash directly into her.

Her bag spills open like it’s performing a magic trick—scarves, toiletries, sunglasses, a sleek little notebook. Everything scatters across the floor.

“Oh my god, I am SO sorry,” I blurt, dropping to my knees. “That was totally—like ninety-nine percent—my fault.”

I grab the fallen sunglasses, the hat, the scattered items, shoving them clumsily back into her bag. I’m mid-reach when I freeze.

Because when I look up…

…I see a face I haven’t seen in seven years.

A face I have dreamed about far too often.

A face that both ruined and resurrected every piece of me.

Sara.

My blood turns to electricity.

She kneels too, meeting me halfway. Her hand comes up—slowly, almost reverently—and she touches my cheek like she never lost the right.

“Did you miss me?” she asks.

Her voice is the same. Warm. Smoke-soft. Dangerous.

My breath fractures.

I should move. I should shove her away. I should stand up and walk—run—in the opposite direction.

But my body remembers her before my brain can scream a warning.

She leans in. I feel the ghost of her lips before they touch mine, a spark against a fuse I pretended I buried. The kiss is slow, deliberate, almost curious—like she’s confirming that I’m real.

Heat surges through me, wildfire-fast.

No. No, this isn’t happening. She can’t be here. She can’t be touching me. She can’t be—

She pulls back.

I collapse onto the ground, breathless, stunned, trembling.

The world tilts. A haze washes over me—bright flashes, white noise, a dizzy spin I can’t get a grip on. The heat. The shock. The seven years of buried emotion detonating all at once.

My vision tunnels.

The last thing I see is her silhouette—sharp, familiar, terrifyingly beautiful.

And the last word in my mind before everything goes black:

Sara.