Chapter 1

Chapter

One

I didn’t think it was possible, but I actually fell asleep next to the stranger I’d met only a few hours ago. Totally tequila’s fault.

Dawn slowly creeps into the room, casting an eerie amber glow, like the dying embers of a once-roaring fire. Romantic, right? Not so much. Beneath me, the bed feels like a slab of ice under starched, rigid sheets—cozy isn’t the word that comes to mind. I rub the sleep from my eyes and take in the bare-bones decor. It’s minimalistic, bordering on psych-ward chic, like a real person doesn’t live here. More like a showcase home for a real estate agency. The bed, king-sized, takes up the center of the room, with white sheets and a white comforter. Against the far wall stands a dresser with a stark white surface, completely empty, as if any sign of life was scrubbed completely away. A lone chair by the window holds my clothes, folded with surgical precision. Also white, of course.

Okay, that’s just freaking creepy .

Next to me, the stranger—Lyle—snores quietly. I’m glad he’s still asleep; it gives me a chance to escape without any of that awkward morning-after chit-chat. I don’t want to hear some bullshit like, “Give me your number and I’ll call you,” or, “We should go grab some coffee.” Those small empty promises strangers say to each other when they have no real intention of following through.

Lyle—if that’s even his real name—approached me at the bar last night. I told him my name was Grace, shamelessly borrowed from a character of the last book I read. Within minutes, it was crystal clear we were both there for the same reason. We bypassed all the usual small talk—no need for the tedious "Where are you from?" or "What do you do?" Instead, we spent the first half of the night crammed into a tiny booth, passionately debating whether it’s ever too early to decorate for Halloween (quick reality check: it’s not) and reminiscing about the old horror movies we grew up on. Our mutual disdain for anything pumpkin-spiced or candy-apple-flavored was about as deep as our conversation got.

As the drinks flowed, Lyle started spinning tales about the Everwood Mansion, clearly aiming to frighten me. Spoiler alert: he failed. He went on and on about the old estate, its local lore, and the endless stream of tourists who apparently couldn't resist a bad night’s sleep at the most infamous horror hotel from early August to the end of November.

“The place is really full of ghosts,” he said, leaning in like he was letting me in on some grand secret.

I smirked and took a long, noisy sip from my straw, draining the last drops of my drink.

“What? You don’t believe me? You don’t think it’s haunted?”

I let his question hang in the air, pretending to mull it over like it was some profound riddle. Then I gave him the only truth I was willing to share that night. “I believe only people can be haunted by things.”

Lyle’s expression darkened, as if he was genuinely offended by my skepticism.“Well, hundreds…maybe even thousands of people visit there every year and all of them see things. Horrible things happen there.”

I think it’s safe to assume he probably worked there in some capacity—maybe as the resident ghost tour guide or part-time scare actor—but I didn’t bother to ask.I was one of those tourists, but I wasn’t about to confess that. Even that felt way too personal for my taste. I went to the bar last night for two reasons: to drink and to get laid—just enough of a distraction to help me survive the next few days.

After six drinks each, Lyle paid the bill and then, with all the subtlety of a frat boy on spring break, asked if I wanted to go home with him. Without hesitating, I said yes. He was decent-looking enough in my intoxicated state, and the idea of being alone last night was about as appealing as a root canal. Not with the dread of facing today—and the next few days—sitting in my my stomach like a dead weight. I was going to see Jonathan this weekend amidst the forced cheer of our friends’ annual getaway. Ugh, the thought of his casual smirk, his indifferent gaze, made my chest tight with humiliation. It’s precisely why I started the weekend’s festivities a day early in a rando’s bed, living la vida tequila.

Lyle made me orgasm three times. Jonathan could barely manage one . The first time was with his fingers as soon as we stumbled into his house, me leaning against the closed front door and his hands shoved deep into the front waistband of my jeans. It was rough and clumsy, but I was so desperate it didn’t really matter. The second time, it was the ripping-off-my-clothes kind of sex, hard and fast, bent over the arm of a faux leather couch, my hair pulled back in his fists. The last time, after a few shots of cheap tequila, was more of a slow, deep grind as I rode him, his eyes locked on me like he’d just won the lottery. But each orgasm was more lukewarm than the last, like a soda left out in the sun. Little half orgasms, nothing to write home about. I think maybe I’ve just grown used to never feeling fully satisfied. Or maybe, over the years, my vibrator has set the bar a little too high for the average guy.

I glance around the room again, slipping out of the sheets, careful not to shift too much of my weight all at once. There’s no sign of a wife or girlfriend—though it doesn’t matter now, after the fact. As quietly and quickly as I can, I dress and head for the door. Lyle’s snoring is softer now, almost like he’s faking it, just waiting for me to make my exit. The thought makes me move faster. I tiptoe around, hunting for my boots and purse, then ease the door open and bolt barefoot to the front of the house.

The three-block walk back to the bar where I left my car last night feels like a marathon in the harsh early-morning light. My head pounds with every step, each throb a drumbeat to my poor-life-choices playlist.

Everything looks different now—what seemed like a quaint little postcard street now appears to be a long, narrow cobblestone stretch lined with questionable black trash bags and boarded-up storefronts. Along the far side of the road ran a long, wrought-iron fence surrounding rolling hills dotted with blanched stone angels and neglected mausoleums. The air smells stale and a thin white mist hangs over the grass, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. It feels like I’m in some B-grade horror movie.

I don’t remember much of how I got here last night, all I know is that I need to stop sleeping with strange men and figure out how to move on with my life. I just don’t know exactly how. I’m still too angry. Too bitter.

Six months ago, Jonathan told his parents—scratch that, his entire family—that I was “the one.” I remember it clearly; it’s practically branded on my soul. He said it. He did. Then, two months ago, right in the middle ofa restaurant, he said he didn’t. That he could never have said something like that because we were just having fun . He acted like nothing ever really happened between us for all those months. Like I’d been writing fan fiction of us in my head the whole time.

Where was he then, when I was falling in love with him? In some other parallel universe, apparently. Then he gets up to use the bathroom, and his phone starts buzzing on the table in front of me. A text pops up from one of our so-called mutual friends. Marissa. A very close mutual friend . I love you too, it said. And that “too”? Yeah, it means he said it first.

He’d never said it to me.

Of course, I opened his phone. Like I wasn’t going to? Please. It wasn’t even a conscious decision—just pure, unfiltered instinct. I scrolled through their text thread, eyes darting over the messages quickly. Dozens of texts, maybe hundreds. And there it was, plain as day: they were in love. How fucking adorable.

Jonathan: I can’t stop thinking of you.

Marissa: Can’t stop either.

Jonathan: Last night was amazing. I never felt like this before.

Jonathan: I’ll see you tonight, after dinner with the guys.

Marissa: Can’t wait. I love you.

Jonathan: I love you too!

The last message was sent thirty minutes before, right after we sat at a table and ordered our appetizers. Apparently, I was “the guys.” Classy.

I didn’t ask him about it when he came back to the table. I just nodded to everything he said, sipped at my drink, one hand hidden on my lap, nails digging into my palms like they could somehow keep me from exploding. But deep inside me, something was seething, ready to burst. Seriously, how hard is it to love me? Some wild, feral thing clawed at my chest, scraping against bone and flesh, desperate to break free and shriek and yell, but I was too ashamed to let it out. How could he do this? How could he do this to me? How could he act like none of it mattered? Pretending it was nothing. Saying what we did was nothing.

He made me feel like nothing.

I always knew it would end, me and Jonathan, it’s just the way it is for me—no one ever sticks around. But, oh, how I hoped. God, I hoped like some lovesick idiot that it would work out for us, that this time would be different, that he’d be different from all the other guys in my past who couldn’t find the exit fast enough.

Hope is a cruel trick though, isn’t it? It’s like the universe’s favorite prank. It gets you all set up, makes you believe things might actually go your way, blinds you to the inevitable, and then— bam —you’re face-first on the pavement, wondering why you thought you could ever fly.

I think I’m always just waiting for people, especially men, to hurt me. It’s like I’ve got this sixth sense for incoming emotional devastation. And when it finally happens, I get this twisted sense of self-satisfaction—like, see? Knew it. Then I dive headfirst into the misery, let it eat me alive from the inside out. There’s definitely something wrong with me; I’m convinced there’s some deep-rooted darkness in my DNA, something wild and unlovable running through my veins.

Now I drink and fuck just to drown out the sound of his voice, of those damn words he swears he never said. I know I’ll get over it—I always do—but sometimes a girl just needs to marinate in her anger, let it simmer and sizzle until the pain really sinks in. Then she can rise stronger and wiser from the ashes. It’s a pretty badass theory, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.

Because I’m a total glutton for punishment, the first thing I do when I get back to my car is pull out my phone and scroll through Jonathan’s social media. And there she is—Marissa’s face plastered everywhere, in every post. A carbon copy of me hanging on his arm, perched on his lap, even wearing one of my old t-shirts that I left at his house. They’re snuggled up in his bed, under that expensive luxury comforter I bought him because he said he wanted to see me wrapped naked in it. And just when I think it can’t get any worse, there’s a picture of them at his kitchen table—the one he used to love to fuck me on—with the oh-so-charming caption: Finally experiencing what real love feels like!

Yeah, Jonathan, I bet it feels real nice.

I wish I had blocked him. He knew exactly what he was doing when he posted that, knew I’d see it, knew it would cut deep. And he didn’t care. Not one bit. I fling my phone onto the passenger seat and let out a string of expletives, each one sharper and louder than the last.

As I drive down Main Street, I swing into the first drive-thru I spot, ordering coffee and a small breakfast wrap, hoping to settle the alcohol still churning in my stomach. My head still throbs, and tears are threatening to spill as I take a sip of the scalding coffee. It takes everything in me not to completely lose it right there in my car. Instead, I focus on my breathing and with a burnt tongue swallow back three loose aspirin I find rolling around in the cup holder of my console. I devour my breakfast burrito in two inhuman bites and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, because fuck napkins .

Five miles later, I pull into the Everwood parking lot and stare at the entrance, my stomach twisting with dread and resignation.The estate is enormous, looming like some Gothic nightmare. A grand American Renaissance-style mansion built during the Gilded Age, now suffocated by dark, overgrown ivy. The front fa?ade is covered with elaborately carved stonework, cherubs and gargoyles entwined in a grim dance. Behind the great sprawling building, a dark thicket of decorative shrubbery hides the old abandoned amusement park this place was once famous for.

Stepping out of my car, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror: same clothes as yesterday, rumpled and stained with remnants of last night’s escapades. My hair is a wild mess, and the makeup that had survived the night now makes me look like a rabid raccoon. Perfect. I take a deep breath and trudge toward the estate’s front entrance, mentally bracing myself for whatever fresh hell awaits inside.

And there it is—the first punch to the gut. Jonathan and Marissa stand by the front desk, laughing together like they’re in some toothpaste commercial. Their perfect smiles, bright and flawless, falter and twist when they see me coming. I smell like sex and booze. I take another deep breath and force a smile at both of them and hope they fucking choke on my stench.