1
Late-night Regrets
How did she end up here?
A week before Halloween, flat on her back in a maid costume, crammed into the backseat of a 24-year-old’s Honda Civic, enduring the worst car sex of her life with a man who treated foreplay like a conspiracy theory.
He acknowledged its existence, but he never attempted to try it.
“You good?” he had asked, right before peeling down her underwear like he was opening a granola bar, not undressing a person.
* * *
Earlier in the day, Blair stood in the kitchen, which smelled of stale coffee and her pumpkin spice wax warmer. She had on one fuzzy sock, her bathrobe, her brown hair wrangled into something resembling a messy bun, and was poking a cold croissant with the same energy she used to swipe through dating apps: half-hearted and already disappointed.
“Ah, yes,” she muttered. “Breakfast of emotionally stunted champions.”
Her phone buzzed.
A memory notification from three years ago.
A photo: her on a boat, drink in hand, flashing a real, actual smile, one with teeth. One where it didn’t look like it was trying to convince the world she was fine.
She remembered the trip, the guy, and the disappointment that had followed it.
Swipe.
Next notification.
Her ex had posted a soft launch of his new girlfriend. A hand, a perfectly manicured hand, with a gold bracelet, rested on the wheel of his Jeep.
Blair stared too long.
Of course, she drives barefoot. Of course, she listens to indie-folk playlists curated by men who journal, and of course, she’s the kind of girl you bring home to mom. Not the one you sneak through the back door of a bar.
Her finger hovered, and then she dropped her phone into her cereal bowl.
“Real Classy,” she said aloud, wiping milk with her sleeve.
She tossed the phone onto the couch, already dreading the next notification.
Then she saw it, the T-shirt. Still balled up at the end of the bed like a ghost of bad decisions past. Gray, faded because she lived in that thing after the breakup—a stupid concert tee from a band she hadn’t even liked until he made her a playlist.
She didn’t wear it anymore, not really, but she hadn’t thrownit out either.
Because a part of her still picked it up sometimes, held it like an apology that never came.
Blair grabbed the shirt, hesitated, then shoved it deep in the trash under yesterday’s takeout and a wine bottle she’d meant to recycle.
“Finally,” she muttered. “Not everything old is worth keeping.”
* * *
Later, she FaceTimed Maya while folding laundry she had no intention of putting away.
“I’m fine,” Blair insisted, balancing a wine bottle between her thighs and a wrinkle-free shirt on her lap.
Maya squinted through the screen. “Are you?”
