The Fall of Bradley Reed (Seasons of Revenge, #3)

by Morgan Elizabeth

I’m surrounded by waste. So much fucking waste. Who knew a simple wedding could have so much stuff? The tissues. The gown. The flowers. The cake, the food. Three years of my life. All of it a fucking waste.

I did everything for him and it wasn’t enough. I gave up huge chunks of myself—my time, my ambition, my . . . personality, even—and it wasn’t enough to make him love me, not really. What does that say about me? Me, a person who so very profoundly wants to be accepted, wants others to like her and view her as valuable, wasn’t enough when I gave someone my all. What does that mean?

I don’t miss the way Cami and Cici look at each other, silently talking, probably wondering if they should schedule me a grippy sock vacation.

Slowly, I’m creeping into the anger stage of grief, and I think I want to stew there for a good, long time. Self-care and all. I think my new version of putting myself first requires giving myself the grace to be fucking furious.

We’re going for cold-hearted baddie vibes. Black Widow-type shit. But, you know. Without the murder. Bodily harm . . . I mean, maybe.

I’m allowed to be mean. I was left at the altar a week ago. How long are you going to use that one? However long everyone lets me get away with it. Queen move, really.

I love Liv and Cami’s relationship

I kick back the voice in my head telling me not to step in and stop this woman’s natural instinct for self-destruction. Survival of the fittest can suck my dick.

I just spent a full hour with Olivia Anderson and I know two things for certain. One, she is absolutely not guilty. And two, I am so totally fucked.

Life is both painfully short and dreadfully long, and you only get the one. Live it for you.”

You can’t be depressed while listening to Noah Kahan. I think they're doing a study about it, about how a mix of folk music and heartfelt lyrics that break your soul somehow counterbalance your own internal emotions until you’re at some kind of equilibrium.

I know Cami is my dad’s soulmate, but I think she’s also partly mine. Like a friend or an older sister soulmate, or a not-quite-mom.

All I feel when I think of Bradley Reed now is anger that he dragged my family through this shit alongside me, how they’re all worried because of him. And how I want him to feel that pain and feel it deeply—by my own hand.

“Your mom fucked you up. One day, you’ll talk about it more and we’ll cry over wine and pizza about it. But until then, until you’re ready to come to terms with it, I need you to know nothing you do or say is a burden to me, Livi.”

And for the first time, he smiles. It’s the kind of smile that could change a day from horrible to wonderful. The kind that, if you saw it every morning, you’d be the luckiest person alive. It makes me want to go buy a lottery ticket on my way home because fuck, being able to see this, something I somehow know is so rare, in person, means my luck is at peak levels.

It’s like there are two people in there, the old version who would never ask anyone for anything that might inconvenience them and this new one she’s trying to create, battling to see who will win. One is a little menace, causing trouble, who I’m pretty sure wants me to break. The other is self-conscious, the one who thinks she’s a burden, the people pleaser. Even if I want to keep this shit professional, even if there is nothing in me that would say looking at Olivia Anderson sideways is a good idea, I know which side I want to win. The little menace. That’s the one the world needs.

I lean in even though I shouldn’t. I use a hand on her chin to tilt it my way, even though I shouldn’t. I brush my hand down her neck, using it to push her hair over her shoulder, even though I shouldn’t. And I lean my forehead against hers, even though I absolutely shouldn’t. I’m in such dangerous territory, playing with fire. Let me burn.

If Olivia is a spark then I am a forest, and I don’t know how I’ll be able to stop her flame from consuming me now that she’s set fire to my world.

If I’m going to hell, might as well taste heaven along the way.”

he’s kissing me like his life depends on it. And it feels that way. It feels like some part of my life, my future, my joy, and my happiness all depend on this kiss. It’s life-changing, the kind of thing you look back on and say, Yes, that was the moment things changed.

“I’d take a million cuts and bruises and run-ins, and I’d do it over and over again if I got this one moment with you, Olivia. You are so, so worth it.” And you know what? For the first time in my life, I’m starting to believe it.

The women did all the things on Olivia’s list that weren’t absolutely illegal and I approved of, and all of them made me promise to never let Olivia go—if only because when she’s got the scent of revenge, she goes all out. And I mean all out. Putting pieces of shrimp in the curtain rods. Taking all of his left shoes. Putting glitter on the ceiling fan. Superglueing all of his containers, like his deodorant and his condiments, closed. Took the microwave turntable and all of the racks in his oven. Flipped the batteries in the remote and superglued it shut. Cutting all the seams in all of his pants pockets. Poking holes in every container in his fridge so they would slowly leak everywhere.

Absolutely savage and I love it

You are not a burden. You are loved. You are worthy.

Andre thinks he saved me from doing something stupid and landing myself in jail and from Bradley’s scheme. And he did, but it isn’t what matters. He saved me from myself, from a life of putting everyone else first, from being happy enough but never overjoyed. A lifetime of accepting and internalizing criticism I didn’t earn, of not knowing my own worth.

And there it is. The ultimate revenge. Fuck glitter and brake lines and beehives. Andre was right all along, though I’ll never admit it—the best revenge is thriving without him. Thriving in spite of him.