WILLOW’S POV
“Willow? Willow, sweetheart, is that really you?” His voice exploded through the speaker, breathless, erratic, and instantly recognizable. “Oh, honey, thank God. I’ve been going completely fucking insane here. I just need to—"
“Nick , slow down,” I interrupted, my voice dropping into a cold, measured register that contrasted sharply with his manic energy. As I listened, a strange sonic landscape began to filter through the receiver. I could hear the distinct, heavy thud of electronic bass music and the chaotic, overlapping roar of a large crowd of people. “Where exactly are you right now?” I demanded.
“I’m… I’m just over at Anton’s house,” he stammered, his speech thick and distinctly slurred. “But listen to me, Willow, I’ll leave right this second. I’ll get in the car and meet you wherever you want. I need to see your face, please.” He was practically begging, but the rhythm of his words was dangerously off.
The idea of a midnight confrontation was repulsive to me, and I had absolutely zero desire to be in his physical presence when he was clearly intoxicated. “How much have you had to drink tonight, Nick ?” I asked, the disgust evident in my tone.
“I’m fine, sweetie, seriously, don’t worry about it. Uh… shit, hold on just one second—”
The audio suddenly became muffled, the distinct sound of a hand being cupped over the phone’s microphone blocking out the primary noise, but the physical isolation wasn't complete. The ambient sound of the party still bled through the edges of the connection.
And then, a sharp, heavily intoxicated female voice cut through the muffled barrier, her words distinct and dripping with malicious intent. “Hey, Nick baby, are you finally up for a little fun in the back room tonight? Come on, I’ve missed you so much. It’s already been two whole weeks since the last time we hooked up.”
The world came to an absolute, freezing halt. The words felt like an icy hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing until my lungs burned. What the hell was happening? Who was this girl?
Through the receiver, I heard Nick explode into pure rage, his voice booming as he pulled the phone away from his mouth. “I told you the last time I am not fucking interested, Jen! Get that through your thick head! I don’t want anything to do with you!”
The girl’s voice returned, a predatory, alcohol-soaked purr that carried clearly over the line. “I don’t know what your major problem is lately, Nick . You can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t amazing when we were together. Why don’t you just let go and have some real fun tonight?”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re even talking about, Jen! Now get the fuck off of me! Right now!”
I sat upright in my bed, my thumb hovering fractions of an inch above the red end-call icon. My stomach was turning over violently; I did not need to subject myself to this sordid, chaotic theater. But before my finger could make contact with the glass, Nick ’s frantic voice returned to the line.
“Sweetheart? Are you still there? Please, God, tell me you didn’t hang up, Willow.”
“Yeah, I’m still here,” I replied, my voice devoid of any human warmth, flat and lethal. He was operating in two entirely different realities—playing the desperate, weeping penitent with me while simultaneously screaming at some random girl in a crowded house party. I had never heard him exhibit that type of vocal violence before; the Nick I had loved for six years had always been defined by a calm, easygoing, laid-back demeanor. This person was a stranger.
“Oh, babe, I am so incredibly sorry,” he growled into the phone, his breathing heavy and ragged. “That fucking chick just wouldn't leave me alone, and it was making me lose my goddamn mind.”
“Yeah, I heard,” I replied, my mind racing as I tried to categorize the information.
“Don’t believe a single word that bitch said, Willow. She’s malicious. She knew exactly who I was on the phone with, and she was intentionally trying to fuck things up between us even more than they already are.”
The logical question—the one that mattered—was why a random girl at a party would have the motivation or the specific timeline of a hookup from two weeks ago if it was entirely fabricated. But I lacked the emotional currency to ask it. I wasn't certain I was prepared to receive the answer, or if I could even trust a single word that came out of his mouth to explain it.
I let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing my temples. “Nick , why don’t we just talk tomorrow in the daylight. Come over to my house around noon. My mom will be at work by then. We can sit down, go through everything, and figure out where we go from here. But I want the absolute, unvarnished truth about everything. Do you understand me? No more lies.”
“Yeah, sweetie, of course. Absolutely,” he breathed, a wave of profound relief washing through his voice. “Thank you so much for giving me a real chance to talk to you. You are my entire world, Willow. I don’t even know how to function without you in my life. I love you so much, sweetheart.”
“Goodbye, Nick ,” I whispered. I terminated the connection, turned the phone off for the second time, and curled back into a ball beneath my sheets. I cried myself back to sleep, my mind torturing me with a montage of the beautiful, untainted years we had shared.
When consciousness returned to me the following morning, the bedroom was flooded with bright, harsh sunlight. A glance at the bedside clock revealed it was already past ten o’clock. The house around me was completely silent; my mother had long since departed for her shift at the medical clinic, and Samantha had left a short text indicating she had errands to run before meeting me later.
I threw off the covers and prepared to head toward the bathroom to take a shower, but as my feet touched the cold hardwood floor, the audio of the previous night came rushing back with terrifying clarity. Two weeks ago. The phrase was a physical splinter in my brain, twisting deeper with every passing second. Had they been together before the party at Jessa's? Had he been maintaining an entire parallel existence while I was finishing my degree?
