She had been fine. Or, at least, her version of fine. If her heart hurt well that was too bad wasn't it? Lydia would just have to get used to it because handsome, kind, smart, funny boys didn't just happen to like her and letting her heart feel hurt meant being smart and letting go and meant accepting it was back to being alone. So she would suck it up and be fine, as long as he wore protection and didn't talk about it, she'd be fine.
Then he had to go and open his mouth and do the very thing she wanted to avoid: talk about who he fucked. How was she supposed to keep her heart from hurting and then ignore it if he kept telling her these things?!
So when he was buzzed up, with Phil and her mom gone, she was laying on the couch in the living room half-heartedly playing call of duty. She kept dying, kept muttering obscenities at the television with her lack of gusto.
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch sniper," she muttered. Lydia looked awful. Her face was pale and streaked with tears she may have just been crying, she was in her pajamas, her hair was in two messy braids she had refused to take out after waking up.