FRIDAY'S GIRL ·ϿʘϾ·

Chapter 45

I was just outside Fairfield, waiting, though I wasn't even sure why I was doing it. My bike rested by the side of the road, with the headlight on and the back tire flat. A bit over two hours ago, a nail embedded in the pavement had punctured both the tire and the inner tube. Luckily, I hadn't lost my balance or face-planted into the ditch. Looking back now, it felt like a sign from fate, warning me to head back home.

Pennsylvania Avenue was a paved road on the outskirts, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields upon fields of alfalfa, with barely any buildings around. I was waiting for Brad's arrival, since he'd assured me he had a surprise for me, and he wasn't wrong. I'd never forget that day—ever.

Suddenly, my phone's screen lit up. Its buzz mixed with the sounds of the plants and the nighttime insects, my only company in that remote place. The stillness of the landscape contrasted with the crushing desolation that ruled my soul.

Grace: Are you on your way home yet?

April: No, not yet.

Grace: I'm worried.

April: I'll send him one last message, and if he doesn't answer in ten minutes, I'm leaving and done with him for good.

That Saturday, Grace and Emma had joined a trip organized by the theater group to visit the Crocker Art Museum and see a musical at the Crest Theater in Sacramento. They'd taken a bus and were staying overnight there.

Grace: Damn! And just today, my parents aren't in Fairfield!

April: Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to me.

My sister was with Mom, and I didn't feel like bothering them. I'd taken just over forty minutes by bike to get there from home, taking a couple of breaks along the way due to my lousy physical condition. But going back would take me at least an hour walking nonstop. I could always call an Uber, though I wasn't sure if they'd pick me up in this God-forsaken place.

After another ten minutes, I checked my phone again, not bothering to hide my pain and resentment. I'd lost track of how many messages I'd sent Brad. He hadn't responded to any, which was making me uneasy. A part of me was hoping for some kind of miracle, for a reassuring reply to appear and clear away all my anxiety. It blew my mind that he hadn't seen a single one of my messages. How could someone forget about another person to that extent? There were no excuses for this.

"Maybe he wants to break up with you, and this is the best way to do it," said a voice in my head, dripping with malice and cynicism. "I know him well; he's not that type of person. Maybe something happened to him," I answered in my mind, feeling guilty. What if he'd had a motorcycle accident?

Almost instinctively, I opened Instagram, searching for any sign of life. Truthfully, I wanted to know if Brad had been active on the app or how long it had been since his last login. At the top of my feed, there were loads of familiar faces from school, surrounded by glowing rings, announcing that they'd all recently posted something.

My brow furrowed as I opened the first profile, and then I saw the truth. Tap by tap, photo by photo, I saw the party at the Owens' house. The place was buzzing with laughter, dancing, and chaos. My blood ran cold.

"No, this can't be..." I was so shocked I could barely believe what I was seeing. "Something must have happened—there has to be an explanation."

But as the minutes passed and I faced the undeniable evidence, with the overwhelming flood of images, it became painfully clear: nothing bad had happened to Brad, there had been no accident. He had simply chosen not to come. He hadn't even bothered to let me know. I didn't matter to him at all.

I was devastated, unable even to move. My legs wouldn't respond, as if part of me still wanted to cling to the hope that he would show up. A stupid idea, sure, but the only thing I had left. "I must be an idiot. What kind of person would keep waiting? Don't you have any self-respect?" I scolded myself silently, my gaze still fixed on a video of the party, where Brad was smiling, surrounded by all his friends.