Chapter 1: The Bootlicker’s Confession

Savannah, I've always believed in one thing: if you keep sucking up, eventually you'll get everything you want. The words ring in my head, sharp and familiar, like the hum of a fluorescent light in a quiet dorm room. I can still remember how this belief shaped me—every time I hesitated, I’d remind myself that effort could fill the gaps where love seemed to be missing. The hope was almost physical, like a pressure in my chest, always pushing me forward.

Funny how that sounds in my head, echoing with the kind of stubborn optimism you only find in small-town kids who think persistence is magic. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a place where Friday night football games at the local high school were the highlight of the week, and the old diner on Main Street felt like home. My mom always said, "If you want something bad enough, keep at it." I guess I took that lesson to heart, believing persistence could turn longing into reality.

You and Autumn Sinclair—one’s the king of the campus, the other's the queen. You two dated briefly, then broke up because of her crowd of guy friends. Even after the breakup, it was obvious you still cared about each other, but pride kept you apart, so you started a long, drawn-out tug-of-war. Through all of it, I was the easiest backup—the tool you used whenever you needed. The first time I realized it, my stomach dropped and my hands fidgeted in my lap, but I swallowed the discomfort, hoping you’d see my loyalty.

Sometimes I think of the way people watched you two from the sidelines, whispering in the halls, like it was some kind of royalty drama playing out at Midwest State. It felt like one of those high school homecoming sagas, everyone waiting to see who’d win prom king and queen. I always felt like the court jester, called in for comic relief, never in the running for the crown.

When she went out to dinner with a younger classmate, you took me out for ice cream. When she hit the gym with an older guy, you invited me to play tennis. When she went shopping with her guy friends, you asked if I wanted pizza. Each time, the invitations felt different—a hurried text, a knock on my dorm door, a promise of a fun night out. I’d notice your shifting moods, your nervous glances, your restless tapping on the steering wheel.

It was always the same routine. You'd pick me up in your beat-up Ford, windows down, music too loud—usually some classic rock or country—and we'd drive to the Dairy Queen on Route 14. The sweet smell of vanilla and chocolate wafted through the air, the hum of other customers and sticky plastic seats grounding me in the moment. You'd order a Blizzard, I'd get a cone, and we'd sit in the parking lot, pretending we were just friends. Sometimes, you'd talk about Autumn like she was a puzzle you couldn't solve, and I'd listen, biting my lip, staring at my melting cone, pretending it didn't sting.

She played the field, keeping her options open, while you clung to me—because Autumn Sinclair hated me most. It all started at the freshman debate contest, when I left her speechless and crying on stage. Autumn, always adored and never wronged, naturally resented me for not holding back. So you used me to provoke her as much as possible. I remember the topic was Lincoln-Douglas style—something about privacy rights—and I watched her mascara streak as the crowd murmured, phones out, whispers swirling. Her jaw was tight, her pride cracked, and I felt both triumphant and guilty.

I still remember the look on her face, mascara streaked, jaw tight, as the crowd went silent. Her friends shot me side-eye in the dining hall for weeks, and Autumn herself would toss her hair, all icy grace, whenever I passed. You, though, seemed to love the drama, always looking for ways to stir the pot, grinning as you relayed the latest rumor.

Of course, I was willing. Back then, I was weirdly obsessed with love—and with you. When you were dating Autumn, I kept my distance, but the moment you broke up, I stepped forward. My heart would race, my hands would shake, and I’d convince myself every little kindness meant something more.

I was young, and youth means naïveté—naïve enough to think love is something you fight for, and that effort always pays off. Besides, even though you usually treated my enthusiasm with indifference, sometimes you offered me a little tenderness—a shared laugh, a gentle touch on my arm.

I used to write in my journal, convinced that if I worked hard enough, you’d see me. I’d replay your rare smiles, your offhand compliments, like a kid counting fireflies in a jar on a humid summer night. Even when you brushed me off, I’d find meaning in the crumbs you tossed my way, clutching them like lucky pennies.

I was like a puppy at a shelter, tail wagging, waiting for someone to pick me, and you'd sprinkle a bit of attention just when I was about to give up. It was enough to keep me lively, pretending for you to see.

I guess I was always hoping you'd notice how hard I was trying, but you only gave just enough to keep me hanging on. Sometimes, I'd stare at the ceiling at night—posters of bands I didn’t even like, the glow of my phone screen painting shadows on the wall, distant laughter from the hallway—clutching that feeling like it was all I had left. I was the kind of girl who'd believe a single text could mean everything.

You wouldn’t let me die, nor set me free. I could only keep going, recklessly, in a cycle that felt endless.

It was like being stuck on a Ferris wheel at the county fair—going round and round, always hoping the view would change, but it never did. My friends called it toxic, but I called it hope, gripping the safety bar with sweaty palms, praying for a better ride.

Until Autumn prepared to go abroad as an exchange student, and you, discouraged, asked if I wanted to be your girlfriend.

You texted me late, the words simple, almost tired: "Hey, do you wanna go out with me?" I stared at the screen, heart pounding, knowing this was my chance—even if it was only because Autumn was leaving.

The backup finally went official; I became the shining example for bootlickers at Midwest State University. My phone buzzed with notifications, and I felt both proud and embarrassed.

I remember the way people looked at us, half-amused, half-pitying. In the campus GroupMe chat, someone joked, "Congrats to Savannah, Queen of the Backups," with a string of laughing emojis and a GIF of someone bowing. I laughed it off, but it stung, the joke echoing in my head.

Then, a year and a half later, you broke up with me out of nowhere, and I only found out the real reason when I saw you two together. The shock felt like ice water poured down my back.

It was raining that day. I watched you walk beside Autumn, her laughter ringing out, your eyes fixed on her like she was the sun. You held her hand so naturally, shielding her from the puddles, scanning the street like you were her bodyguard. I stood across the quad, invisible, clutching my books, the chill of wet grass seeping through my sneakers, rain tapping on the pavement.

You walked beside Autumn; she chattered away, and you turned toward her, listening intently, a gentle smile on your lips, holding her hand, always scanning the crowd and the traffic, quietly shielding her. I felt my throat tighten, my fingers numb around my backpack straps.

I’d never seen you so attentive. You even moved her hair out of her eyes, smiled at her stories. It hit me then—when you cared, you cared deeply. Just not for me. My heart clenched, and I bit my lip to keep from crying.

When we were together, I always played that role. When walking with me, you were never attentive, glued to your phone, playing games, replying to Instagram messages, or doing something else. Whenever I nervously held your hand to guide you past obstacles, I worried that if you walked alone like that, it would be dangerous. My grip was sweaty, and I felt embarrassed, wishing you’d notice me.

I remember trying to steer you away from a pothole, my hand sweaty in yours. You barely looked up, mumbling something about a fantasy football trade. I felt like a ghost, just someone to fill the space, the rough sidewalk grating under my shoes.

But today I realized, you actually can be a protector—it just depends on who’s by your side. The truth was sharp, almost freeing.

It’s wild, the way clarity sneaks up on you. I stood there, watching you with Autumn, and it was like someone flipped on the lights in my head. All the excuses I made for you evaporated. You could be good, just not to me. I took a shaky breath, feeling the ache settle in my bones.

Nearly two years—if I couldn’t get what I wanted, I could have wished you well. But nearly two years, day and night—sorry, I couldn’t be that generous. The bitterness burned, heavy and hot.

I wanted to be mature, to wish you happiness, but my heart was too raw. I couldn’t let go without a fight, not after all the nights I spent hoping for more. My fists clenched, tears threatening to spill.

I did something that made you furious. I acted on impulse, desperate for closure.

I added Autumn Sinclair on Facebook and sent her a message, asking if she knew she was getting between me and my boyfriend.

I typed it out, hands shaking, the words blunt and desperate. "Do you know you’re getting between me and my boyfriend?" I hit send before I could talk myself out of it, my thumb hovering over the screen.

She didn’t reply, but you came to me that night. The tension was electric, my nerves frayed.

You showed up at my dorm, face red, fists clenched. I could hear the anger in your voice before you even spoke, the door slamming, footsteps echoing in the hallway.

You lost your temper, looking exasperated, shaking my shoulders and shouting, "Are you freaking crazy, Savannah Brooks?"

You’d never yelled at me like that before. The hallway echoed with your voice, and for a second, I thought you might actually care, my hands shaking, mascara running down my cheeks, voice cracking as I tried to answer.

That was the last of your guilt toward me. You said, "Autumn is innocent, she knows nothing. Why did you drag her into this?" The accusation was sharp, your eyes cold.

You looked at me like I’d broken some sacred rule, like I was the villain in your story. It hurt, but I couldn’t stop crying, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Tears streamed down my face. I asked, "Because when you started things up with her again, I was still your girlfriend." My voice trembled, barely above a whisper.

I was shaking, mascara smudged, voice barely above a whisper. I wanted you to understand how much it hurt, how unfair it felt. My hands wrung together, desperate for comfort.

You said something I’ll never forget: "Sorry, in my heart, I never broke up with her. She’s always been my girlfriend."

"I’ve never liked you. If someone doesn’t love you, you’re just the third wheel."

Go to hell.

That line rang in my ears, cold as ice. I stumbled out of the building, the world spinning, my legs numb. For the first time, I realized love doesn’t always mean being chosen.