After the Snap (EBOOK)

Ebooks are delivered instantly by link in your confirmation email and also by email from our delivery partner, Bookfunnel.

You can read the ebooks on any ereader (Kindle, Kobo, Nook), your tablet, phone, computer, and/or in the free Bookfunnel app.

Alayna

Each headline is worse than the last, and yet I read every single one, a glutton for punishment. I should be used to this feeling by now. He’s been pulling this shit for months, but for some reason it’s this betrayal, this complete letdown that obliterates me as each word I read about Dom’s latest scandal buries itself inside me. He seriously bailed on me at his own fucking birthday party for her. 

Jen Summers. 

Sure, she’s gorgeous. All petite, with flawless skin and perky, fake boobs—only the best for an heiress turned Hollywood starlet. I bet she’s a spinner. Bile rises in my throat as I imagine the many positions they could’ve been in when her husband found them in bed together. 

What the fuck was Dom thinking? He’s done a lot of stupid shit—more and more lately, which has been concerning—but never would I have expected this from him. He hates infidelity. Especially after what his dad did to his mom. Something about the story doesn’t quite fit, but I’m too hurt to dive too deep into it. 

I’ve been secretly—stupidly—in love with my best friend, Dominic Smith, for as long as I can remember. When we were first paired together for a group project in high school, I thought it was going to be torture because we couldn’t be more different. I was the quiet math nerd who was in math club and knowledge bowl, and Dom was this enigmatic powerhouse who got flirty smiles from the girls and high fives from the guys whenever he walked down the hall. But Dom surprised me. Instead of being the stereotypical jock I’d pinned him as, he was down-to-earth, fun, and carefree, but also completely and utterly dedicated to football. His passion for the game was contagious, and it wasn’t long before he’d taught me about the different positions, plays, and terminology in between our project work. 

Somewhere along the line, I found myself antsy with anticipation for every day that I knew we’d be working together. When the new unit rolled around and our teacher switched up the groups, I was devastated, not only because I was paired with Tim Ruggerts who had a nasty habit of eating hot Cheetos right before class and getting the cheese left over on his fingers everywhere, but also because I was going to miss my time with Dom. We didn’t hang out outside of class, and I’d never felt such an instant connection with anyone as I did with him. 

One night not long after the new groups were assigned, I was drowning my sorrows in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s when my phone beeped with a text message. Imagine my surprise when the unknown number belonged to Dom. He’d asked a friend of mine for my number because he was completely lost on the unit assignments, and his new partner was obsessed with herself. 

Thus began our friendship—and my completely one-sided crush. Dom became my lifeline through the struggles of senior year and the crippling fear that I wouldn’t get the scholarship I needed in order to attend my dream school, Boise State. My dad had gone there, and I spent my whole life dreaming of the day I’d get to call myself a Bronco too. When my acceptance came in with a scholarship that covered all of my tuition, Dom was the first person I ran to. And when he announced his acceptance and football scholarship to Boise State, I was the first one he told—before it became headline news of our small Idaho town. 

I thought college might be a fresh start for us, a chance to maybe take our friendship to the next level. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I became Dom’s go-to girl for everything but the one thing I wanted—okay, maybe two things. 

His heart and his penis. 

But the death of his mom—coupled with his dad’s infidelity and then subsequent marriage—fucked with his head in a way I never saw coming. Dom became your stereotypical college football guy. He dated vapid cheerleaders and girls who were most likely to become models or social media famous. It was impressive if they could even carry a conversation that wasn’t focused on celebrity gossip or the latest social media trend—if they even bothered to look up from their phone at all. Sometimes it seemed like he dated every girl but me. 

There were days I wanted to hate him but I couldn’t. As much as he was a player both on and off the field, he was also ultimately down to his core—deep, deep down lately—a good guy, and at the end of every day I was the person he reached out to. I was the friendship he maintained even at times when I would try to pull away to soothe my bruised heart. But he’d always pull me back asking if I was okay, seeking information for what was bothering me and how he could fix it. 

But he couldn’t fix what he didn’t feel, and I didn’t want to see a look of pity on his face when I confessed what had become my deepest secret. I wasn’t going to be desperate enough to throw myself at him when it was clear how he felt. I’d promised myself I would never be a man’s second choice. I’d seen my mom put herself in that position too many times after my dad died when I was eight. 

I can admit now that I’ve been waiting for him to see me—not just as his best friend, but as a woman—which is laughable as I sit here watching the entertainment media outlets go on and on about Dom’s latest scandal. Shame and self-loathing swirl uncontrollably in my gut, and I feel like the most pathetic doormat in existence. How did I get here? How did our friendship go from the one thing that felt solid in my life to the thing that makes me feel the lowest about myself? 

Dom’s been all I’ve seen for so long. I’ve imagined our future together more times than I care to admit. Those nights in college when we’d stay up until the early hours of the morning talking about nothing and everything. The nights we’d walk the track around the football field and talk about our dreams for the future. He always spoke of the future with me in it, and it gave me a stupid amount of hope that someday he’d realize what was right in front of him. 

Now all I have to show for all the years I’ve loved him is a broken heart, wounded pride, and a sick twisty feeling in my stomach. 

I don’t think I can do this anymore. 

I can’t keep being the one he’s always coming back to when I don’t actually mean what I want to mean to him. I can’t keep being the one who always picks up the pieces for him. The woman who’s always his shoulder, his support, despite the fact that he takes it for granted. Time and time again. 

Images flash on the screen of other women Dom’s been spotted with in the past few months as they continue to discuss his series of recent scandals and love life. Gorgeous women with figure-hugging dresses—showing off their tight abs, trim waists, toned legs, and thigh gaps. I’ve never had a thigh gap a day in my life. My breasts aren’t as big as I wish they were for my size fourteen frame. My stomach is more flab than ab, even if my weight is distributed fairly evenly, and my tall height of five feet nine helps. That pit in my stomach grows because the only times I’ve ever been self-conscious about my body are in moments like this when I’m comparing myself to the models, actresses, and socialites Dom has gravitated toward since he joined the pros.

And all at once it hits me harder than it ever has. I’m never going to be enough for him. No matter what, I’m never going to be the kind of woman he wants. What’s worse is that all of this pain is my own making. He’s never promised me we’d be together in the future. He never tried to kiss me, not even when he was drunk. This has all been on me. 

I can’t keep waiting for him to see me. To want me. To love me the way I’ve always loved him. I toss back a gulp of my wine and swallow down the bitterness and hurt threatening to bring me even more pain. No. No more. I deserve more—better. 

The point of the matter is that I’ve let Dom treat me like a doormat one too many times, and now the truth is hitting me like a football to the face. 

It’s time to move on.