Part 3The Seven Year Breakup

Having received his permission, Cameron practically sprinted out the door after Blair.

Terrified he wouldn't catch her in time.

I went back to our apartment alone.

A hollow shell, I curled my knees to my chest inside the porcelain bathtub.

The frosting and the cheap confetti from the cannons had formed a concrete-like paste in my hair.

The more I scrubbed, the more tangled it became.

Eventually, my arms gave out. I collapsed into the murky, lukewarm water.

My body temperature plummeted, then began a slow, feverish climb.

As the bathroom tiles began to spin, the buzzing vibration of my phone echoed against the porcelain.

I dragged myself up to answer it.

The voice on the other end sounded distant, repeating my name with mounting urgency.

"Cam?" I murmured instinctively.

"Jo, it's me," my coworker corrected, her voice thick with second-hand embarrassment.

I stared at the wall for a few seconds, then whispered an apology.

"I forwarded the client feedback to your email. We've got a briefing in ten."

"Jo, you don't sound right. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Give me five minutes."

Trembling, I pulled myself from the tub.

I tore through the medicine cabinet for Advil, but found nothing.

Desperate, I dialed Cameron’s number.

Usually, even in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, he would answer my calls on the first ring.

Especially on the nights I was home alone.

He used to stay on the line with me until the sun came up.

But now.

A dozen calls went straight to voicemail.

Maybe the fever was making me delirious.

Or maybe the crushing weight of seven years of repressed emotions was finally suffocating me.

The more he ignored me, the more obsessive I became.

I mashed the call button until my thumb bruised.

Until a notification popped down from the top of my screen.

An Instagram story from Blair.

A mirror selfie.

She was wearing a massively oversized white button-down.

No pants in sight.

The caption:

[Who's a good boy doing Mommy's laundry? ~]

The next slide was a Boomerang.

Cameron, bent over the sink, vigorously scrubbing a pair of her blood-stained underwear.

And right there, resting at the bottom of the sink, sinking beneath the frothy, pink-tinted water... was the custom platinum band I had bought for him.

I stared at the screen for a long, long time.

My hand, which had been suspended in the air, finally went slack.

It fell to my side.