Chapter 3
1174 Words
Chapter 3
The cold hits me as soon as I step outside the hotel.
Not from the weather but from the kind of chill that sinks into your chest when you walk away from something you've always wanted... and you do it anyway.
I pull Jake’s coat tighter around myself and keep walking. My legs ache. My throat burns. My head pounds from the hangover and the embarrassment.
I don’t dare look back.
I walk fast, head down, coat tight around me.
Every few steps I feel the ghost of his hands on me…
The way he cupped my face. The way he whispered “Amy…” like he was unraveling.
I shake the memories off and they cling harder instead.
“You’re an i***t,” I mutter to myself. “You’re not his type. You’re not his… anything.”
I hate how easily I almost believed him.
He’ll wake up, see the note, and probably laugh or shrug or forget.
He always lived in a different world. I was just the girl who floated through his peripheral vision at twenty.
Nothing has changed.
I reach the nearest bus stop and sink down onto the cold metal bench. The city rushes around me cars, people, umbrellas, noise but it all feels muted, like I’m underwater.
My hands shake as I reach into the pocket of his coat and pull out the hotel pen and the leftover stationery I used.
The corner is still bent from where I pressed too hard while writing the note.
A thank-you note.
Who leaves a one-night stand with a thank-you note?
Apparently me.
I read the copy I scribbled first, the messy draft I crumpled but tossed into my bag instead of a bin:
Jake,
Thank you for last night.
I’m sorry.
—Amy
Too emotional.
Then:
Jake,
Thank you.
I can’t stay.
Please don’t follow me.
Too pathetic.
I ended with humor. A weak, panicked attempt at it.
Jake,
Thanks for saving my life (literally).
And sorry for being a drunk i***t.
—Amy
And then I ran.
A bus whooshes past, sending rainwater onto my shoes. I huff out a breath that sounds too close to a sob.
Jake belongs with women who look perfect standing next to him. I never have. I can’t imagine him waking up, seeing me, and not regretting everything.
“He’ll forget you,” I whisper to myself. “People like him always forget girls like you.” Girls like me don’t wake up in beds with men like him. I’m still the big girl no one picked, not even in college.
That’s the truth I know: Men like Jake don’t wait or don’t chase. They don’t pause their world for girls who disappear.
And me? Disappearing is what I do best.
Maybe it’s easier to vanish than to risk seeing the disappointment on his face. Maybe it’s easier to be the fat girl who leaves first.
Three Days Later
My life returns to its usual rhythm, which is to say:
Work
Home
Bed
Repeat
I’m back behind the receptionist desk. Life pretends to be normal phones ringing, keys clicking, voices asking for things I can’t give. My manager snaps at me for moving slowly. Sophie and Chloe send me voice notes complaining about their brunch plans, pretending everything in their lives is perfect. I don’t reply. I don’t fit into their world anymore, and maybe I never did.
I delete the new i********: account I tried to make, it feels pointless.
“Amy?” Priya whispers, stepping behind the reception desk. “You look… exhausted. What happened?”
Something in her voice is so genuine it almost cracks me open. Unlike Sophie and Chloe, Priya never looks at me judgingly or in a competitive manner, just pure concern.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She snorts softly. “You’re terrible at lying.”
I keep typing at the computer even though nothing is loading. Priya lowers her voice. “Is this about your i********:?”
My fingers tremble, my chest feels tight.
That hits harder than it should. I stare at the screen, blinking through the sting in my eyes. “It’s gone. Deleted. Everything.”
“Oh, Amy… I know your page makes you feel better. But lying online would always catch up with you.”
Her face softens instantly. She places a warm hand over mine. “I’m sorry.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “It was stupid anyway.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she says firmly. “You put your heart into that page. It kept you going. Losing something that meant something to you… that hurts.”
Her kindness almost undoes me.
I exhale shakily. “Priya… I made a mess of everything. I just want to disappear.”
“You don’t have to disappear,” she whispers. “Just… don’t self-destruct. And stop pretending you don’t matter.”
That one sentence…
It hits deeper than anything Sophie or Chloe ever said.I nod weakly and she squeezes my hand.
She doesn't know about Jake.
No one does.
I keep replaying the morning in my head, the quiet room, his sleeping face, the way my heart screamed “stay” while my legs dragged me out the door. I haven't heard from him since then.
On the third evening, I find myself staring at my phone like an i***t anyway, waiting for a message that doesn’t come.
I sigh and flop onto my couch.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. My pulse spikes ridiculously, stupidly thinking it might be him.
It isn’t.
It’s a number I don’t recognize from Cornwall. I frown and swipe to open the voicemail. A man’s voice formal, British, slightly cold:
“Miss Collins, this is Allerton & Pierce Solicitors. We have an urgent matter regarding the estate of Mrs. Beatrice Harland. Please return our call immediately.”
Estate?
Mrs. who?
I almost delete it as a scam until I hear the last line:
“It is regarding your inheritance.”
My breath catches.
Inheritance?
Me?
People like me don’t get inheritances.
I don’t even know any relatives. My parents died when I was fifteen, and after that it was foster homes and empty birthdays.
I call back with trembling fingers.
A polite woman answers, directs me to a man named Mr. Allerton.
His voice is clipped and matter-of-fact:
“You are the sole beneficiary of Mrs. Beatrice Harland of Penmarrow, Cornwall. The will cannot be executed without your presence. We advise you to travel down as soon as possible.”
“My… what?” I choke out.
“Sole beneficiary, Miss Collins.”
My stomach swirls.
“I—I didn’t know her.”
“Nevertheless, you were in her will.
Please check the letter we mailed you for travel details.
We look forward to meeting you.”
The call ends before my brain catches up.
I can barely look at myself in the mirror some days without flinching.
So why would a stranger think I deserve something so big?
- Writer
