Done Hiding as Your Backup Plaything I'm Shining Golden as a Queen - Chapter 46: Chapter 46

One beer in, and my head was definitely swimming, my elbow propped awkwardly on the table with my palm trying to stabilize my suddenly heavy head.
By this point, everyone had demolished their food and the room had transformed into a chaotic symphony of overlapping conversations. The noise blurred together in my beer-fuzzy brain; voices melted into each other like some weird audio smoothie.
But that didn't stop me from doing what I'd apparently made my life's mission.
Staring at Jax Xavier like my eyes were programmed to track him.
His black t-shirt made his skin look almost impossibly pale, and the clean line of his neck was unfairly perfect. People say love is blind, but in my case, it had laser-focused my vision—even the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck seemed worthy of a Renaissance painting.
Lost in these increasingly non-PG thoughts, I didn't notice when Jax suddenly turned around, like he had some sixth sense for being watched.
My alcohol-slowed brain couldn't catch up fast enough to throw up my usual defenses.
The beer had dissolved whatever filter I normally kept between what I felt and what I showed, and everything—three years of pining, the humiliation, the longing—was probably plastered across my face like a billboard.
Jax's eyes, dark and usually unreadable, landed on mine. When our gazes locked, something shifted in his expression.
The casual half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth stiffened.
Then disappeared completely.
In that moment, as clarity cut through my beer haze, I knew he'd seen it all—every pathetic, unrequited feeling I'd been harboring since I was fourteen.
But it didn't matter. UCLA was huge. We'd probably never cross paths again anyway.
And reality played out exactly as I predicted—I didn't run into Jax again after that night.
Occasionally I'd see his name pop up on the campus confession page, usually with some girl writing paragraphs about his jawline or how he'd held a door open for her once and now she was planning their wedding.
After about a week of classes, Thanksgiving break approached.
I'd picked up a part-time job at a boba shop near campus to keep myself busy over the holiday.
The night before break started, Mom called.
Her voice had that familiar saccharine tone she always used when she wanted something: "Sweetie, what time does your flight get in? Mom will pick you up at the airport. Rosalia's coming home for Thanksgiving too—I'm making that sweet potato casserole you love."
"I'm not coming home," I said flatly, slicing through her holiday fantasy.
There was a solid thirty seconds of silence on the other end, like she was buffering.
Mom finally asked, her voice tightening, "Are you still angry about what happened?"
"Not at all," I lied.
Mom: "Then why aren't you coming home for Thanksgiving? It's tradition."
"I got this job I just started. They need coverage for the holiday weekend."
Mom: "Are you that desperate for money? We can send you some."
"I'm fine." I brushed her off, already exhausted by the conversation. "Look, I've got midterm prep to finish. Gotta go."
After I finished reviewing my lecture notes for tomorrow's class, I checked my phone.
Ten missed calls. Twenty unread texts.
The calls were split between Mom and Dad, with Dad's increasing in frequency as the night went on.
The texts included two from my roommate ("Hey heads up, storm tonight, close your window or your notes will be ruined") and a tsunami of messages from Mom.
Mom: Why aren't you really coming home? Don't use that job as an excuse.
Mom: Your father is absolutely livid. He thinks that perfect SAT score has gone to your head and now you think you're too good for your family.
Mom: Every other college freshman is going home for Thanksgiving. What will we tell the neighbors when they ask why you're not here?
Mom: Liana, you can't seriously still be holding a grudge, can you? Are you still mad at your sister over a stupid skirt?
Mom: I already explained this—Rosalia was just upset about her scores when she ruined your skirt. It was months ago! How can you still be angry about something so trivial?
At this point, I didn't even want to see what other guilt trips she'd crafted.
I closed the messaging app and tossed my phone onto my bed.
There were so many problems with her entire approach that I didn't know where to begin unpacking it. The selective memory. The gas-lighting. The way Rosalia was always the victim, even when she was the one destroying my things.
Some things just don't change—which was exactly why I was spending Thanksgiving serving boba to other students who couldn't (or wouldn't) go home.