“To Conor!” Della echoes, her cheeks flushed with wine and secondhand excitement. “Seriously though, Bets, I haven’t seen you glow like this in... well, ever.”
“It’s not just the foot massages and orgasms,” I admit, tracing patterns in the condensation on my glass. “He makes me feel safe. Valued. Like what I want actually matters. We haven’t gone all the way yet, but I’m anticipating it on our next date.”
“Foot massages? Holy shit, he seems heavenly. Sounlike a certain someone who shall not be named,” Liana mutters, tilting the bottle until crimson liquid swirls dangerously close to the rim of her glass. Her burgundy-painted nails tap against the stem in a staccato rhythm that matches her irritation. “Devon’s always been a master at making everything about him,” Della adds, her usually gentle face hardening into sharp angles I rarely see. The delicate laugh lines around her eyes disappear as she leans forward, blonde hair falling across one shoulder. “Remember when you got that promotion last year? You ordered champagne to celebrate, and somehow by dessert, it had turned into a three-hour conversation about his career anxieties while your chocolate soufflé melted untouched.”
I wince at the memory. “And then he disappeared for a week when I asked for more emotional support.”
“Classic Devon move,” Liana says, rolling her eyes. “Look, honey, we’ve watched this cycle for years now. He pulls away, you get your life together, then he swoops back in the minute you start to move on. It’s textbook manipulation.”
“She’s right,” Della says, her voice softening to that gentle tone she reserves for wounded animals and heartbroken friends. She leans forward, the pendant on her necklace swinging like a hypnotist’s watch in the amber light.
“We love you too much to watch you go through that again. Especially now that you’ve met someone who treats you the way you deserve.”
My throat tightens, a familiar ache spreading up into my jaw. I swallow hard against the pressure building behind my eyes, blinking twice at the ceiling’s pendantlights until they blur into amber stars. “I know you’re right. I do.” The wine tastes suddenly bitter on my tongue as I set down my glass with trembling fingers. “It’s just... seven years is a long time to invest in someone. That’s almost one-fourth of my entire life.”
“That’s the sunk cost fallacy talking,” Liana counters, pointing her finger at me. “Just because you’ve already wasted seven years doesn’t mean you should waste seven more.”
“What does Conor think about all this?” Della asks, always the practical one.
I take another sip of wine, remembering the conversation Conor and I had after he’d woken up to find me staring at Devon’s missed calls.
“He said he understands that I have history with Devon, but that he’s not interested in competing for my attention. He told me to take whatever time I need to figure things out, but...” I pause, my voice dropping to almost a whisper. “He also said he thinks I deserve someone who chooses me every day, not just when it’s convenient.”
“Smart man,” Liana says approvingly. “And hot, from what you’ve told us. Honestly, Bets, this should be a no-brainer.”
“You know we’ll support whatever you decide,” Della adds, ever the diplomat. “But as your friends who’ve seen how Devon affects you... Please, please don’t let him pull you back into that toxic cycle.”
I nod, feeling a strange lightness in my chest as I make the decision I’ve been dancing around for days. “You’re right. Both of you. I need to tell Devon it’s really over this time.”
“Hallelujah!” Liana exclaims, drawing amused glances from nearby tables. She doesn’t seem to care, raising her glass again. “To new beginnings and men who aren’t emotional vampires!”
We clink glasses, laughing, and I feel something uncoil inside me—a knot of tension between my shoulder blades that’s been there so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to stand straight. My phone buzzes in my purse, the familiar vibration that once sent my heart racing. For the first time in years, I don’t lunge for it, fingers trembling, wondering if Devon’s name will appear.
Instead, I stay present with my friends, breathing in Della’s vanilla perfume and the citrus notes of Liana’s shampoo, letting their support wrap around me like cashmere on bare skin. The wine tastes richer now, notes of blackberry and oak lingering on my tongue as I take another sip. Whatever happens with Conor—his calloused hands and patient smile—whatever Devon might try next with his midnight texts and convenient apologies, I know I’m not facing it alone. And more importantly, I know what I deserve now. I’ve tasted what it feels like to be valued, to have someone’s eyes remain fixed on mine when I speak, to be seen for who I really am.
I’m never again settling for the scraps from someone else’s table—not when I’ve finally tasted what it feels like to be the feast.
CHAPTER 14
CONOR
The night air carries Betsy’s laughter across Park Slope, a melody that vibrates through my fingers where they’re intertwined with hers. Brooklyn feels different tonight—more alive, more electric—with her hand in mine.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell her, lifting her delicate hand to my lips. The softness of her skin against my mouth sends a current down my spine. “These past few days without you have been...” I search for the right words, “...unnecessarily long.”
The streetlights cast a golden glow across her face, highlighting the curve of her smile, the shine in her dark eyes. Three days apart shouldn’t feel like eternity, yet somehow with Betsy, it does.
“I’ve missed you too, Con,” she says, her voice carrying on the night breeze. “Though I’m not sure if it’s you or killer foot massages I miss more.”
“Stay with me tonight,” I say, not a question but notquite a command either. “I want to wake up with you tomorrow.”
Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see the answer before she speaks it. “Yes.”
That single word ignites a fire in my veins. I bend down, muscles tensing as I scoop her into my arms with one decisive motion. Her body fits against my chest, light but substantial, curves pressing into the hard planes of my torso.
“Conor!” she squeals, her slender arms wrapping around my neck, fingertips grazing my collar. “What are you doing?” Her perfume—vanilla and something darker—fills my lungs as I take the brownstone steps two at a time, my grip firm beneath her knees and across her back.
“Being romantic,” I reply, voice dropping lower as I hold her gaze. “Is it working?”
