productive time of the day, but this morning I can’t even get up to make coffee. Wrapped in a blanket, I watch the city wake up, sunlight streaming through windows and gently welcoming the world to the day. I don’t have anything on my schedule today, so I could easily go back to sleep, but this is the time I should be doing my actual work. There’s something about creating before the world is awake. To sketch, to explore, to turn paper into new and interesting shapes. In the quiet stillness of sunrise, I only have to answer to myself, and starting on an artistic note fills me and sets me up for success.
But even though my sketchbook is inches away on the floor, I don’t reach over, paralyzed by my decision from last night.
I have to break up with Matt.
I pull the blanket tighter. Even having the words scroll through my head makes me shiver, not because it’s the wrong choice, but because I know, deep down, I should’ve done it a long time ago. It’s not like last night was the first time he let me down. I could’ve said The End after the Chicago police force charity ball, when he left me alone all night to schmooze with strangers while he worked the red carpet. Or two months ago, when Chomper and his goons threw me in the back of their beat-up van and drove around in circles until I puked. Matt wasn’t even the one to save me that time; it was Earthquake who finally got behind the wheel and drove me to safety.
But honestly, none of this hits the root of the issue. He’s a celebrity; it’s been that way from almost the start, and dating a public figure comes with baggage. Add on the fact that his star shines with an extra helping of danger, and the chances of being a normal couple are pretty much nonexistent. That stuff I can deal with—and have—for years; it’s when my trajectory gets thrown off by his plans that the knife cuts deep. We used to be able to balance the demands of his life with mine, and I was never an afterthought, even when he had to save the world or appear at cons. He used to know, just from a look, when I was feeling down or needed a shoulder. Now I can’t even be sure he’ll show up. We were partners in this crazy adventure, but somewhere along the way, we were thrown off course.
I look around Becca’s apartment, sunlight warming the messy one-bedroom space. Since our parents are in the middle of the world’s most epic divorce, Becca’s been letting me crash on her couch. I don’t want to live with either of my parents, and I can’t stay in the dorms until the fall, so even though my sister’s place is cramped, storing my stuff in Target bags is better than getting tossed around in a power struggle. Besides, Becca is an up-and-coming actress, tending bar when she isn’t lighting up the stage, and I like the cozy, bohemian artist collective we’ve got going.
I hear a thump from outside the living room window, so I sit up to see if our unofficial pet squirrel, Nutty, has returned to our fire escape. Why a squirrel would climb three stories day after day for extremely inadequate shelter is a mystery to me. It’s not like we feed him. But oh well. I don’t see the furry little guy, or anything else for that matter, so I’m about to sink back down for ten more minutes of sulking meditation when a shape begins to materialize on top of the metal slats. Huddled tight in a ball, a human form fades in, and where once there was nothing, suddenly there’s a man, wrapped mostly in white yet flecked with red.
Oh, Matt.
Part of me wants to close the curtain and pretend I never saw him, go on with my day and get things done. But that’s just Bad Bridgette talking—the persona the fangirls and WarNats have put on me. In their eyes, I’m just a heartless, fame-chasing wench who only cares about myself and never prioritizes his needs. But I’d never actually leave him there. My heart hasn’t hardened to the sight of seeing someone I care about hurt. Someone needs to tend to his battle scars, so I open the window and give him a gentle nudge on his thigh, unsure where his injury stems from.
“Hey,”