Chapter 10

“Elle Rivera?” The woman says again in her chirpy voice.

I drop my mustard-drenched hotdog like it's on fire, resisting the urge to puke.

Elle Rivera.

Right. That name. That stupid, fake name I gave the sketchy clinic.

"Hi! Just calling to let you know we got your results from the routine screening," says the nurse. Her voice is too cheery, cheerier than anyone delivering a potential death sentence should be. "The doctor would like to go over them with you in person.”

In person. Not over the phone. Not in a cute little email with emojis and non-threatening language. In person. Which in medical speak, means either:

A) You’re about to die.

B) You have something so infectious, so deadly, the CDC wants to name it after you.

“Tomorrow?” I say, voice shaking like a leaf.

“Yup. We’re open round the clock. Anytime is fine!”

Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Casual death window.

I hang up and blink at the hotdog like it betrayed me. My hands are clammy and I can feel Emily’s eyes burning into my soul.

“Who was that?” she says, suspicious.

“No one,” I chirp, trying to make my voice sound normal. It comes out about two octaves too high. “Just a spa appointment.”

Emily lifts an eyebrow so sharp it could slice cheese. “Spa appointments now go by aliases?”

“It’s… a niche spa. Underground. Very exclusive.”

She gives me a look that says I know you’re lying but I’m too tired to ask.

As soon as I get home, I spiral. Like full-fledged, sparkly-toe-socks-and-a-Versace-robe spiral. I’m pacing around my apartment like a deranged villain.

I grab my laptop and go full search engine gremlin.

“Can you have herpes and not know?”

“STI symptoms no symptoms?”

“Can stress cause actual, literal death?”

Taking a deep breath, I pick up my phone and start recording a voice note for our group chat.

“To Emily, I leave my vintage Prada clutch and all rights to my posthumous art collection (even though it’s just mood boards and nail designs). To Callie, I leave my unfinished revenge Pinterest board and the password to my finsta.”

I text my mom:

Me: “If I were hypothetically dying, like medically speaking, would you want me to come home or keep it a mystery until the funeral?”

Mom: “Charlotte. What. Go drink water.”

She doesn’t even ask what’s wrong. Just water. Because in this house, we hydrate before we hallucinate.

I decide I have three days to live. Tops. Maybe four if I go on a gluten free diet.

I try to work but it’s no use, my brain is completely fried. I try to clean and make my penthouse look vaguely presentable, but instead, I knock over a vase and make the mess worse. Classic.

I climb my bed, and turn off the lights, and instead of sleeping like a normal person, I’m in bed rereading old messages from Monty. Big mistake. Huge.

I’m flipping back and forth between I hope he steps on a Lego barefoot and maybe we were good once.

Just then, he sends a video. A blurry clip of me laughing during a ski trip two years ago. My hair’s a mess, my cheeks are red, and I’m snorting mid-cackle because he fell face-first into the snow.

Monty: “You’ve never looked happier. I miss that girl.”

I stare at it for too long. Then I hurl my phone across the bed like it’s been possessed.

Ten seconds later, I retrieve it like the weak-willed masochist I am.

I type a long message detailing how much I hate him. Delete it. Type again. Delete again.

And somehow, I end up watching old videos of us. Which, of course, makes me cry. Which then disgusts me, so I cry harder about crying. I hate my life.

The next morning, I show up at the clinic in full disguise, a hoodie, oversized sunglasses, scarf wrapped around my face like I’m about to enter the witness protection program.

I step up to the desk, lean in, and whisper, “Elle Rivera,” like it’s a password.

The receptionist doesn’t even blink. Just hands me a clipboard and tells me to wait.

So I do. But I’m also mentally unravelling. What if it’s HPV? Or cancer? Or HPV and cancer

A nurse calls my name like it’s the most normal Tuesday ever (because it is), and leads me to a freezing room with a paper-covered bench that crinkles every time I breathe.

Then the doctor strolls in, smiling like someone who definitely hasn’t just pulled up my death certificate.

“You’re fine,” she says brightly. “Just a UTI. Very common. Very treatable. I’ll prescribe antibiotics, and you should drink more water.”

I blink. “So I’m… not dying?”

“Nope.”

“No incurable diseases?”

“Nope.”

Bending my head, I lower my voice. “I bought a funeral dress.”

She smiles. “Wear it for New Year’s.”

I leave the clinic clutching my prescription and a bottle of overpriced Smartwater from the vending machine, the emotional equivalent of a wet sock.

I text Callie and Emily:

Me: “Update: not dying. Just need to pee more responsibly.”

Callie: “So dramatic. I love you.”

I actually laugh. Like, real laugh. Like, snort-cackle-sigh kind of laugh. I toss off my hoodie, pour myself some cranberry juice like it’s a martini, and curl up on the couch in my comfiest throw blanket. Stalking Axton like a creep, I scroll through his Instagram.

That’s when I do it.

I accidentally like a photo of Axton.

From a year ago. Standing in front of some moody-looking art, face half in shadow, probably wearing a watch worth more than my monthly rent.

Then… he follows me.

My whole body tenses. I am on the verge of, figuratively shitting my pants. (I’m too classy for that, thank you.)

The typing stops.

Then starts again.

Stops.

Starts.

Stops.

I throw my phone onto the bed like it's poison. Screaming silently into my hoodie, I wonder if I can legally change my name to Elle Rivera and move to Malta.

I get a notification.

It’s from him. Axton. No text. Just… a photo of me, from that night at his place.