Chapter 1

Debbie

I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets tangled around my legs like restraints. The digital clock on my nightstand glows 3:17 AM, casting an eerie blue light across my bedroom. My skin feels clammy, and I'm breathing like I've just run a marathon.

Cole again. Always Cole.

In my dream, he was standing over me, that familiar smirk on his face. "You really think you can make it without me, Deb?" His voice still rings in my ears, so real I almost expect to find him leaning against my bedroom wall.

I untangle myself from the sheets and sit up, running my hands through my curls. They're damp with sweat at the roots. Fucking nightmares. It's been three months since I walked out of his condo for the last time, but my subconscious won't let me forget.

"Get it together, Debbie," I mutter to myself, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

The hardwood floor feels solid beneath my feet as I pad to the bathroom. I flip the light switch and squint against the sudden brightness, then splash cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looks tired. Haunted.

"You're pathetic," I tell my reflection. "He's not worth this."

But the memories flood back anyway. Cole grabbing my wrist so hard it left marks when I tried to leave a party early. Cole "accidentally" deleting my study notes before a major exam because I'd been "spending too much time with my books instead of him." Cole telling me my natural hair looked "unprofessional" and that I should straighten it if I wanted to be taken seriously.

I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles hurt. Why am I still letting him take up space in my head? I'm back in school, working toward my degree. I have a decent job. I have my own place now—small but mine. No more walking on eggshells, no more apologizing for existing.

Yet here I am at three in the morning, shaking because of a dream about a man who never deserved me in the first place.

"Fuck you, Cole," I whisper to the empty bathroom. My voice sounds stronger than I feel.

I grab a glass of water and move to the living room, curling up on the couch with my favorite throw blanket.

The worst part is how stupid I feel. I'm smart—I've always been smart. How did I not see what was happening? How did I let myself become so small? Every time I think I'm moving forward, something drags me back—a song on the radio, a nightmare, seeing someone who looks like him on the street.

My phone sits on the coffee table, and for one weak moment, I consider checking his social media. Just to see if he's moved on, if he's found someone new to control.

"Don't you dare," I tell myself, pushing the phone away. That's exactly what he wants. To stay relevant, to keep his hooks in me even from a distance.

Instead, I reach for my textbook. If I'm going to be awake, I might as well be productive. The psychology chapter on trauma and resilience feels a little too on-the-nose right now, but maybe that's what I need. The pages are already dog-eared and highlighted in various neon colors, evidence of my desperate attempt to understand what happened to me, to make academic sense of the emotional hurricane Cole left in his wake.

I trace my finger along a passage about recovery not being linear. Two steps forward, one step back. The important thing is the direction, not the pace. The words blur slightly as my tired eyes scan the page, but the message sinks in deeper than any lecture ever could. This is my life now. Messy progress, stumbling forward even when I feel like I'm drowning.

"I'm getting there," I whisper to myself. "One day at a time." My voice echoes in the quiet apartment, a small affirmation in a space that's finally, completely mine. No one to criticize how I arrange my furniture or mock my collection of secondhand books. No one to tell me I'm reading too much or thinking too hard about things that "don't fucking matter, Debbie."

I must have fallen asleep with the textbook across my chest because the next thing I know, sunlight is streaming through the blinds I forgot to close. When my phone blares at 11:30 AM, I fumble for it with my eyes still half-closed, nearly knocking over my water glass in the process.

"Hello?" My voice sounds rough, unused, like I've been screaming instead of sleeping.

"Girl, where have you been? I've texted you three times this morning!" The voice on the other end is loud, energetic, and exactly what I don't need with this pounding headache from too little sleep.

The familiar voice jolts me awake like a shot of espresso. "Natalie?"

"The one and only. Listen, a bunch of us are hitting up The Rooftop tonight. You need to come. And before you start with your excuses, I already know you don't have class tomorrow, and that shitty manager of yours gave you the weekend off." Her words come rapid-fire, leaving no room for the refusal already forming on my lips.

Natalie James—my ride-or-die since freshman year, before Cole, before everything went sideways. She'd warned me about him from day one, and I'd written it off as jealousy. Another mistake to add to my collection.

"I don't know, Nat..." I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "I've got a ton of reading to do for Monday, and—"

"And nothing. When's the last time you went anywhere that wasn't school or work?"

I pause, trying to remember. Has it really been that long?

"Exactly," Natalie says, filling my silence. "Look, I'm not taking no for an answer. You need this. We need this. Just a few drinks, some dancing, maybe flirt with a cute stranger who isn't a complete asshole—"

"Natalie!" I laugh despite myself. It feels strange, rusty, like opening a door that's been stuck for seasons. The sound almost startles me. When was the last time I genuinely laughed?

"What? I'm just saying, the best way to get over somebody is to get under—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence." But I'm smiling now, and something shifts inside me, a tiny crack in the wall I've built. The heaviness in my chest lightens just a fraction. Maybe she's right. Maybe I do need this, need to remember there's a world beyond textbooks and memories of Cole's cutting remarks.

"So you'll come?" She sounds hopeful, that familiar Natalie enthusiasm bubbling through the phone. I can practically see her bouncing on her toes, already planning our night.

I glance at my textbook splayed open on my bed, then at the clock on my nightstand. The red numbers seem to mock my Friday night solitude. What would staying in accomplish, really? More time to dwell on Cole's last text? More chances for my brain to replay our fights? More nightmares where I'm still trapped in his world?

"Yeah," I say, and the word feels like freedom, like taking my first real breath in months. My heart flutters with something that might be excitement. "Yeah, I'll come."

"Fuck yes!" Natalie practically screams into the phone, and I have to pull it away from my ear. "Wear something that shows off those legs, girl. Something Cole would've hated. We're reclaiming your hotness tonight, and I won't take no for an answer. It's time the world remembers who Debbie Peters really is."

After we hang up, I stand in front of my closet for twenty minutes. Everything feels either too conservative or too much like something Cole would have approved of. I finally settle on a deep purple dress I bought after we broke up but haven't had the courage to wear yet.

I take my time getting ready. Shower, moisturize, style my curls just right. When I put on makeup, I go bold with the eyeliner, something Cole always hated. "You look desperate with all that stuff on your face," he'd say. Fuck him. I look amazing.

By the time I'm slipping into my heels, something electric buzzes under my skin. Anticipation. Excitement. For the first time in months, I feel like myself—not Cole's ex, not the girl who made bad choices, just Debbie.

I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and actually stop to stare. The woman looking back at me stands tall, shoulders back, chin up. Her eyes are bright, alive. She looks nothing like the ghost I saw at 3 AM.

"Damn, girl," I whisper to myself, turning to check the view from behind. The dress hugs every curve just right.

My phone pings with a text from Natalie: "Uber's 5 min away. You ready to break some hearts?"

I type back: "Ready to remember what fun feels like."

And I mean it. Tonight isn't about Cole. It isn't about proving anything. It's about me. Reclaiming my time, my joy, my life.

For the first time in forever, I feel like I might actually be okay.