Chapter 11
Jul 4, 2025
I build walls like other girls build Pinterest boards—obsessively, methodically, with serious commitment to the aesthetic.
Brick one: Complete radio silence.
Brick two: Strategic avoidance.
Brick three: Industrial-strength sarcasm.
My phone has been buzzing like a trapped wasp for three days straight.
Grayson: Juliet please
Grayson: I know you’re reading these
Grayson: Brielle means nothing
Grayson: Don’t shut me out
Delete. Delete. Delete. Block.
There. Problem solved. Grayson West has been digitally executed.
“You look like you’re plotting someone’s murder,” Lily observes, sliding into the seat across from me in the library.
“Just deleting spam.”
“Spam doesn’t make you look homicidal.”
“You’d be surprised.” I slam my laptop shut. “Some spam is very persistent.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “We’re still talking about email, right?”
“Always.”
Liar. We’re talking about a six-foot piece of walking heartbreak who thinks sorry fixes everything. It was crazy to call it heartbreak when we didn’t even date. How could I let this happen to me?
The worst part isn’t even the betrayal. It’s that everywhere I go, people are talking. Whispering. Speculating about my tragic virgin existence like it’s their personal entertainment.
“Did you hear about Juliet and Grayson?”
“I heard she’s still a prude.”
“Bet she made him wait and he got bored.”
Cool. Love being campus gossip. Really completes my academic experience.
I’ve thrown myself into school like it’s my religion. Volunteered for every committee, rewritten our entire Ethics project (solo, obviously), and planned the fall charity event down to the napkin colors.
“You’re being weird,” Lily announces during lunch, stabbing her salad with unnecessary violence.
“I’m being productive.”
“You rewrote your Calculus notes. In three different colors. For fun.”
“Organization is therapeutic.”
“Organization is procrastination wearing a fancy outfit.”
Damn. She’s good.
“I’m fine, Lil.”
“You keep saying that. It’s like your new catchphrase. Very convincing.”
Before I can argue, Brielle Torres walks by our table, voice pitched just loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear.
“She’s trying so hard to be a saint. Like being a virgin makes her special or something.”
And there it is. The daily dose of public humiliation.
I grip my fork tighter. “Ignore her.”
“Just wait till he gets bored of playing nice,” Brielle continues to her little audience. “Guys like Grayson don’t stay interested in ice queens.”
Lily’s eyes flash. “Want me to accidentally spill soup on her designer bag?”
“Don’t.”
“Come on. It would be therapeutic. For both of us.”
Tempting. Very tempting.
“She’s not worth the detention.”
But their words crawl under my skin anyway, settling like poison in my bloodstream. Because they don’t know how close I came. How my cardigan hit the floor. How his mouth felt against my neck. How for exactly three minutes, I wanted to be the girl who didn’t stop.
They think they know me. They don’t know shit.
“Fuck them,” Lily says quietly.
“Language, Miss Vasquez.” I attempt humor.
“Seriously, Jules. They’re just jealous bitches with trust fund problems and daddy issues.”
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
“I feel like people need hobbies that don’t involve dissecting your love life.”
Love life. Right. Because three minutes of making out constitutes a love life.
“There’s nothing to dissect.”
“There’s something. You’ve been weird for days.”
Try weeks. Try since a certain boy with storm-gray eyes made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
“I saw him,” I admit quietly. “With Brielle. Kissing her.”
Lily’s fork clatters onto her plate. “What? When?”
“Three days ago. Outside the dorms.”
“Shit. Jules, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We weren’t anything. Barely even friends.”
Liar liar pants on fire.
“But you liked him.”
Liked him. Understatement of the century.
“I thought I did. Turns out I just liked the attention.”
Lily doesn’t buy it. I can see her mental wheels turning, cataloging all the ways that’s complete bullshit.
“Has he tried to explain?”
Only about fifty times.
“There’s nothing to explain. I saw what I saw.”
“Maybe—”
“No maybes. No excuses. No giving him the benefit of the doubt.” My voice is sharper than intended. “He made his choice.”
And I’m making mine.
The chapel is empty when I escape there after lunch, needing silence and space to think. I sit in the back pew where no one can see me fall apart.
Good girl. Untouchable. Pure.
Words I used to wear like armor now feel like a straightjacket. Like a role I got cast in before I even auditioned.
What if I don’t want to be the good girl anymore?
What if I want to be the girl who kisses back without apologizing?
What if I want to be the girl who doesn’t run away?
But that girl gets her heart shattered by boys who kiss their exes in hallways. That girl becomes gossip material for bitches like Brielle.
That girl is exactly what I swore I’d never become.
30
