Baby steps, Betsy. You need to start somewhere.
CHAPTER 1
BETSY
My therapist has strongly suggested I quit answering Devon’s calls and texts. I’m working on it. It took seven nights of staring at his name on my screen, seven mornings of deleting drafts, seven days of phantom vibrations against my thigh before my thumbs finally betrayed my brain.
A text from Devon lights up my phone at 7:12 PM:
Drinks tonight? The usual spot at 8?
I stare at those pixels longer than I should, my finger hovering over the reply button as the late afternoon sun slants through my home office window. Three little dots of hesitation. The architectural renderings on my computer screen blur as I focus on those eleven words instead.
“Not tonight,” I whisper to myself, even as my fingers betray me:
Sure. See you at 8.
Why do I do this to myself? Once upon a time, hanging out with Devon used to leave me breathless—the stolen glances across lecture halls, the way his fingers would find mine under restaurant tables, that first kiss against the brick wall outside Sterling Library with snow melting in my hair. Now I just feel hollow, like someone scooped out all my insides and left behind this shell that still responds to his texts with mechanical precision–a hypnotized fool doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results.
The James Hotel is our usual place to meet—all brass fixtures and velvet stools that squeak when you swivel, where bartenders wear suspenders without irony. It’s exactly 2.7 miles from my apartment and 2.4 from his Tribeca loft, a geographic compromise that somehow still feels like I’m the one making the effort. If Devon possessed even a molecule of chivalry, he’d schlep to my neighborhood so I could get home quickly. But I stopped expecting Prince Charming behavior after the Great Blizzard Debacle of 2016, when his precious Honda died on Route 34. We trudged through eight inches of snow while my ears turned the color of strawberry jam, and he clutched his coat around himself like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
Devon is already sitting at the bar when I arrive, his sandy blond hair catching the amber light like he’s the hero in some indie film. He’s leaning forward on his elbows, Rolex glinting, designer shirt sleeves rolled to expose tanned forearms as he chats with the bartender. This pretty redhead laughs a little too enthusiastically at whatever he’s saying. He doesn’t notice me until I’m three steps away, which gives me just enough time to swallowthe knot in my throat, unclench my jaw, and compose my face into something casual, unbothered—the expression I’ve perfected over seven years of pretending he doesn’t still have the power to crack me open.
“Bets,” he says, rising to kiss my cheek, his lips lingering half a second too long. His cologne wraps around me like a memory—sandalwood and something citrusy that reminds me of late nights in his New Haven apartment when the radiator hissed and his sheets smelled like this exact scent. “You look amazing.” His eyes do that slow-motion inventory, from my face down to where my dress hits above the knee. I slide onto the barstool beside him, smoothing down the black dress I’d chosen after rejecting three others, its fabric cool and slippery beneath my fingertips. “You’re not so bad yourself.” The words come automatically, part of our choreography, as familiar as the way his right eyebrow lifts slightly in response.
Devon signals the bartender with two fingers and a practiced smile. “Gin martini, extra dry, twist of lemon,” he orders without consulting me. The crystal-clear liquid arrives in a chilled glass, its surface trembling slightly as I lift it to my lips. Devon launches into a story about his latest client, which makes his voice quicken with excitement. I nod at precisely timed intervals, my lips curving upward on autopilot while my eyes track a drop of condensation sliding down my glass. The bar’s Edison bulbs cast honeyed shadows across his perfect jawline as he leans closer, his cashmere sleeve brushing my bare arm, his knee finding mine beneath the polished mahogany.
“So,” he says, voice dropping to that intimate register that once made my pulse skitter, “I’ve been seeing this woman from my building. Melissa. Works in fashion PR.Has this collection of vintage Hermès scarves that she wears differently every day."
“Oh?” I drawl, tilting my glass until the gin floods my mouth, its juniper bite followed by the citrus sting that momentarily distracts from the tightening in my chest. "How’s that going?”
"Good, actually. I’m taking her to Daniel’s this weekend.” His cobalt eyes lock onto mine with laser focus, cataloging every micro-expression that might flicker across my face. His thumb traces the rim of his whiskey glass, leaving smudged fingerprints on the crystal. "She’s been dropping hints about wanting to try it for weeks. Something about their tasting menu being life-changing."
Daniel’s—the very place I’d mentioned for my birthday last year, with its Michelin stars and crystal chandeliers that cast prismatic rainbows across white tablecloths. He’d called it “pretentious bullshit for people with more money than taste.”
“Fancy,” I manage, suddenly fascinated by the olive bobbing in my glass.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, his shoulder brushing mine. “She’s into that scene. Actually, speaking of this weekend—” He leans closer, warm breath grazing my ear. “We could grab takeout after, though. Saturday night? I know how much you love that Thai place near your brownstone.”
Takeout. After his date. The thought settles in my stomach like a stone.
“We’ll see,” I say flatly, my voice as cold as the condensation beading on my martini glass. “I think I have plans.”
His hand slides to my knee under the bar, his thumb tracing small circles against the silk of my dress, sendingunwanted electricity up my thigh like lightning searching for ground. The pressure of his fingertips leaves five distinct points of heat through the fabric.
“You know you’re my favorite girl, right? Nobody gets me like you do,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that I can count each perfectly trimmed eyelash.
I look at him—really look—at the perfect white teeth gleaming under the bar’s amber lighting, the Swiss-made Rolex with its sapphire face that he’s probably still paying off, the way his Mediterranean-blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s trying to charm me, like expensive gift wrap around an empty box. Seven years of this dance, and what do I have to show? Late-night texts that arrive after midnight. Casual drinks in dimly lit bars where no one important will see us. Takeout containers stacked in my recycling bin from the meals we share after his real dates have ended.
He never takes me to the restaurants with month-long waiting lists that he mentions in passing. Never introduces me as more than “my friend Betsy” with that slight pause before “friend” that makes everything clear. Even at Yale, when we were “official” on Facebook and nothing else, he kept me separate from his lacrosse-playing fraternity brothers and future hedge fund manager friends, as if I were some secret indulgence he couldn’t quite give up but wouldn’t fully claim.
“I should get going,” I say, downing my drink in one swift motion. “Early meeting tomorrow.”
“One more,” he urges, his fingers tightening on my knee. “It’s only nine. Remember when we closed down that dive in New Haven and still made it to Professor Harmon’s 8 AM lecture?”
I remember. I remember everything—that’s the problem.
“Not tonight, Devon.” I place a twenty on the bar and rise, gathering my purse. “Good luck with Melissa. Hope Daniel’s lives up to the hype.”
