Our Story Ends on the Hundredth Page

"Is this supposed to be my rap sheet?" Dexter Carrington asked, barely glancing at the diary before setting it down.

He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind.

"Come on, Ivy, knock it off. Brianna and I just finished a huge project. I'm dead on my feet, and I really don't have the energy to deal with this right now."

He didn't have the energy?

I looked down. The phone in his hand was still lit up, open to a conversation with Brianna Holt.

She was asking when he wanted to go buy outfits for the celebration. He'd told her tonight, since I had work and wouldn't be around to make a fuss.

I almost laughed. He seemed to have plenty of energy for that. He'd even picked a time to go shopping when I wouldn't be there.

I pulled free from his arms. "Your phone's still on."

He stiffened for a second, then clicked the screen off. "This is Brianna's first time running a project celebration. It means a lot to her."

It meant a lot to her, so he didn't want me getting in the way.

"What about me?" Something in me surged. It was my one final push. "Tonight's my first solo at a major concert. You promised you'd come."

Dexter and I met at a school concert. He told me my music calmed his nerves, that I was the only thing that kept him grounded. He bought me the best violin money could buy and swore, like some devoted fan, that he'd never miss a single performance.

But his promises never lasted past the moment he made them. He missed every single one. It started when he found out my best friend, Brianna, went to his school in the same department.

After that, they were in the lab together every other day, talking about things I couldn't begin to follow. And every time something of mine clashed with Brianna's schedule, he'd smooth my hair back with an apologetic look.

"Be good, okay? This is a rare opportunity for Brianna. I'll make it up to you later."

His version of making it up to me was taking Brianna and me to dinner. I'd sit next to Brianna while he sat across from her, and the two of them would talk about experiments and papers like they were a couple and I was the third wheel.

After dinner, they'd go right back to being joined at the hip, co-authoring papers and entering competitions together.

I rehearsed alone. I performed alone. When I snapped a string and wanted to vent about it, all I ever got was the same line.

"Ivy, Brianna and I are really swamped right now. Can it wait?"

He'd said those words so many times that I didn't want to hear them anymore.

Dexter reached over and smoothed my hair back the same way he always did. "That's great, though. Look at you, getting your own solo.

"But I need to help pick outfits for the whole team this time. I really can't get away. Can you just be understanding about it?"

I ducked away from his hand. Whatever light was left in my eyes went out.

"It's fine. We already broke up anyway, didn't we?"

Dexter's hand froze in midair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted.

"Ivy, you know, Brianna's really right about you sometimes. You artist types overthink everything. It doesn't matter how much someone loves you, you'll always be stuck in your own little world."

He loved me? Then why wouldn't he read my diary or come to my performances? Why was every other word out of his mouth about Brianna?

"Forget about me. Just go apologize to Brianna."

I looked up, thrown. "What?"

"I told her you were jealous of us again and that you wouldn't let me help her pick outfits. Now she feels awful. She says she can't even sleep.

"Brianna's been pulling all-nighters for days. She's running on fumes. You can't keep making her pay for your mood swings."

I stood there, and it took me a long moment to process what he was actually saying.

So while we were fighting, while I was trying to break up with him, he'd been texting Brianna in those few seconds when his back was turned.

I looked down. The apartment suddenly felt freezing, like something hollow had cracked open inside my chest and the cold was rushing in to fill it.

"Remember to apologize. I'm going to lie down. I'm wiped."

He didn't notice a thing about how I was feeling. He just turned and walked into the bedroom.

I stood there for a few seconds, then picked up my phone and called my orchestra manager.

"Diana, does the Clearwater project still have openings?

"Yeah. I want to leave Ridgehaven."