When I look back across the street, Devon has disappeared.
---
Later that night, I stand in our bathroom, removing my makeup while Conor brushes his teeth beside me. The domesticity of it still surprises me sometimes—how easily we’ve fallen into these shared routines, how natural it feels to build a life together.
“I think I might approach Devon the next time I see him,” I say, meeting Conor’s eyes in the mirror. “Clear the air. Tell him about the engagement.”
Conor rinses his mouth, setting his toothbrush in the holder next to mine. “If that’s what you want to do."
“I think it is.” I lean against the counter, studying his face. “Does it bother you? That he keeps showing up?"
“What bothers me is the thought of him upsetting you." Conor’s hands find my waist, warm through the thin fabric of my nightgown. “But I’m not threatened by him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I rise on tiptoes to kiss him, tasting mint and feeling the slight roughness of his evening stubble against my palm. “Good. Because there’s no competition.”
His arms encircle me completely, lifting me onto the bathroom counter with effortless strength. My nightgown rides up as I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him closer.
“Prove it,” he whispers against my neck, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
I don’t think about Devon again until morning, when my phone pings with a text message from an unknown number:
We need to talk. It’s important. Meet me at Riverside Park, near the 79th Street entrance. Tomorrow, at noon.
I know without checking who it’s from. The certainty settles in my stomach like a stone as I stare at the screen, Conor’s steady breathing beside me in our bed.
I should delete it. I should block the number. I should tell Conor.
Instead, I find myself typing:
Fine. But this is the last time, Devon.
His response comes immediately:
Thank you. You won’t regret it.
But as I set my phone down and curl back into Conor’s warmth, I already do.
The next day at noon, I’m sitting on a bench at Riverside Park, the Hudson River stretching before me like a vast steel ribbon catching fragments of sunlight. Spring has fully awakened here—cherry blossoms dot the landscape with explosions of pale pink, while fresh grass pushes through the soil with determined optimism. I absently twist my engagement ring, a nervous habit I’ve developed in the short time it’s adorned my finger.
Conor is somewhere behind me, keeping a respectful distance. When I told him about Devon’s message over breakfast, his response was exactly what I needed.
“I’ll drive you,” he’d said, squeezing my hand. "I’ll stay out of sight, but close enough if you need me.”
No jealousy, no demands to see the texts, just that steady support that has become my foundation.
I spot Devon before he sees me. He walks with that confident stride I once found so attractive, hands in the pockets of another perfectly tailored suit—navy this time. The spring breeze ruffles his hair in a way that seemsalmost choreographed. He looks like he belongs in a magazine spread rather than a park on a Tuesday afternoon.
“Betsy.” My name on his lips still holds a trace of the intimacy we once shared, but it no longer sends electricity through my veins. “Thank you for coming."
“You said it was important.” I maintain a neutral and professional tone. “So here I am.”
He sits beside me, leaving a careful distance between us. I catch a whiff of his cologne—the same expensive brand he’s worn since college. Once, that scent meant comfort and desire. Now it’s just a fragrance, pleasant but unremarkable.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes traveling over my face like he’s memorizing it. “Happy."
“I am happy,” I confirm, not offering any further explanation.
Devon takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the river. "I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past few months. About us. About what went wrong.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “I made a mistake, Bets. The biggest mistake of my life.”
