Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
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I stare at my phone, reading Chris's text over and over until the words blur and my eyes start to sting.
Chris: Hey, can we talk?
I haven't responded. I don't know what to say. He's engaged now—everything we had, all the moments, all the feelings, wiped clean in just two weeks. It's like I never existed in his life. I should feel numb by now, but each time I think about it, the hurt resurfaces, sharp as ever.
I don't want to talk to him. Especially not now, when the news of his and Rebecca's engagement is plastered all over the internet. The happy couple. I'm sure the Bryant family pulled all the strings to make sure the announcement was perfect. Kayla's probably throwing a damn parade for them.
Good for him, I think bitterly, swallowing down the lump in my throat. He can stay in that sham of a relationship for all I care. I refuse to be the side thing, the one he crawls back to when he needs comfort. I'm better than that.
But still, the sting of betrayal cuts deep. I feel like such an idiot for trusting him, for believing—even for a second—that someone like him could change. He was too charming, too smooth, and I should've seen the signs from the start. I should've known better.
"Cumpleaños Feliz [happy birthday to you]!" I hear, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. My head jerks up, and I see my mom, Alma, walking toward me with a big cake lit with candles, a bright smile on her face. My aunt Mia, phone in hand, is recording me with her usual enthusiasm, capturing the moment like it's something out of a movie. And my uncle John? He's beaming like it's his birthday, not mine.
Right, I think, feeling the tug of reality as I close my phone and place it facedown. My birthday. Somehow, I'd forgotten.
I force a smile as they sing their hearts out, the familiar melody of "Cumpleaños Feliz" filling the room. My mom leads the way, her voice slightly off-key but full of love, while my aunt Mia is recording every second, probably planning to send it to the whole family WhatsApp group later. Uncle John following quietly behind with a small smile. My mom and aunt cheer for me at a baseball game rather than just a birthday celebration.
"Y que cumplas muchos más [and here's to many more]!" My mom sings proudly, placing the cake in front of me with that proud, motherly smile. She made sure this moment was perfect, no matter what's going on in my head.
I smile up at them, the warmth of the candles flickering against my face. They've gone all out for me, and I can't help but feel guilty for being so wrapped up in my own misery. But this moment—it's theirs too. They deserve my full attention.
Pulling my hair back, I lean forward and blow out the candles, making the smallest, quietest wish I can muster. For peace, I think, or at least for clarity.
