Influenced by Eva Robinson (love story books to read .TXT) 📕

no circumstances was she supposed to reveal that she read the hateful comments—that only made things worse. But she could no longer stop herself.

She posted the picture of the pond. I havejt snaped..; Im perfecly san;e. I didn’t kill any one. It was hard to type when she was this drunk—not that spelling was her strength even sober.

Vaguely, she knew this was a terrible idea, but she hit Share anyway.

But that would bring the mood down, wouldn’t it? Her feed was supposed to be about fantasy, not death. Death would ruin everything.

And like she’d been saying all night, this was a night for celebration. So she lifted up her phone, tilted her head, and snapped a selfie.

This time, she wisely decided to dictate her post instead of typing.

Thanks to everyone who helped raise money for the teen center it will mean so much to the students and Cambridge and I’m glad I could be part of it.

Swaying on her feet, she shared the selfie to Instagram.

Still, her secrets weighed on her, and she felt a perverse desire to confess everything. Like they did in churches in the old days—a confession to cleanse the soul. Maybe that was what it would take to get Marc’s attention in a positive way. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

None of the vile comments would matter if Marc still loved her. She dropped to her backside in the grass, then crawled over to a patch of mossy earth. She lay down, arms out wide. How much had she drunk? Whatever happened, she would not post another nude.

When she shut her eyes now, she felt like the vines were crawling around her brain, choking out the light. She makes me sick. This is just sad now, isn’t it?

She turned, her vision blurry as she looked at the party behind her. Hannah was dancing with Daniel, leaning into him, swaying. Was that Hannah or Stella? It was hard to see from here, but she wanted to be over by them now.

How had she gotten so far away from them?

On her hands and knees, she started crawling closer. “Hannah!” She tried to shout her friend’s name, but it came out slurred, too quiet.

The grass felt amazing beneath her, and a breeze was skimming up her short dress. The ground was marshy here, but that was how the earth was supposed to be—damp and healthy, full of green grasses. The magic of the earth charged into her body.

Vaguely, she had the feeling that someone was watching her, but she didn’t mind. Why had she ever been ashamed of that nude photo? What was wrong with the human body? People were so uptight. Puritans.

Now, at last, the English ivy was receding from her brain, leaving behind a wonderful serenity. Music floated on the wind, maybe Peter playing something—a sad, slow song.

It was all so funny, though, wasn’t it? The best and brightest here from Cambridge, and they were all smashed.

Wild laughter bubbled up in her, and she dug her fingers further into the soil. If Marc were here with her now, she’d wrap herself around him like a morning glory.

The world was tilting beneath her. Maybe a little rest was in order. On her back, she laughed as she imagined Marc moving over her, a smile curling his perfect lips.

There it was—her phantom life, the one with Marc. It was where she had conversations with him when she poured her morning coffee, when she took baths. In her phantom life, they lived in a beautiful house in the south of France, and they had breakfast together in their garden in the mornings. Their Labrador bounded through the wildflowers. She didn’t even like dogs, but Marc did.

She was there now, her head on Marc’s shoulder, the scent of his strong coffee wrapping around her. She’d stay out here all day with him, and they’d jot down notes for their books as they soaked up the sun. Sunlight gilded them. Music played—trumpets, violins—and she was dancing with him, pressed against him. They twirled in the beams of light until they glowed like stars.

When her eyes opened again, she was flat on the ground, so dizzy it was like her head was on a seesaw. She found herself looking up at a craggy tree above her, its branches silhouetted against the starry sky. She’d stay here forever…

But it was only a temporary respite, because the voices were coming back again, climbing in her mind.

Will she sleep in the mud like a pig? Seems fitting. She snapped… At least I can’t see her disgusting, warped feet.

YUCK. Her greasy hair makes me want to vomit.

This is just sad. She’s completely unhinged. She had so much going for her and now she’s just rolling around in dirt. What happened to her? She needs professional help.

Pathetic. No wonder Marc dumped her for someone better.

Loud shouting pulled her from the chorus of derision in her mind. Distantly, Peter was playing his guitar, but the music sounded off.

Anyone who’s paying attention could have seen this coming. She’s VILE. Pig. I can’t wait to see what she looks like after three months of jail.

It was no longer a quiet voice in her mind.

The voice was right next to her. “Shut up,” Rowan snarled.

The world seemed to be tilting on its axis. Even through her drunken haze, she knew there couldn’t be any more missteps, any more controversy. One more scandal would send her completely over the edge.

Her life was a complete mess, and she needed to fix things once and for all.

Didn’t I tell you this would happen? the commenters said. Rowan is dangerous to be around. She’ll kill anyone who gets in her way.

Twenty-Nine

Hannah’s head throbbed and a rushing sound filled her ears, like she was underwater. Her heart seemed to be beating too fast, and she was sure something was wrong. It took her a moment to realize what it was. She wasn’t at home in bed, which was the appropriate place to sleep. She was