Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe confusion. Devon’s not used to me walking away first.
“I’ll text you,” he calls as I head for the door.
I don’t look back. Outside, the September air chills my flushed skin. I inhale the city’s scent—exhaust fumes, someone’s perfume, the faint sweetness of roasting nuts.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Devon already:
I’m still coming over Saturday, right? I’ll bring the good wine.
I stare at the message until the words blur, my heart folding in on itself like wet origami. Seven years of being someone’s favorite secret, someone’s afterthought—a relationship preserved in amber, neither dead nor truly alive.
My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly while taxi horns punctuate the night and strangers brush past me on the sidewalk, their laughter and conversations a soundtrack to my silence. I should tell him no. I should tell him to fuck off with perfect clarity, no emoji softening the blow. But I don’t. Instead, I shove my phone deep into my purse where it nestles between crumpled receipts and a half-empty pack of gum, as if distance from the screen might somehow translate to distance from him. I walk faster, heels clicking against concrete, each step a promise that tomorrow will be the day I finally stop answering.
CHAPTER 2
BETSY
The Italian bistro’s chatter fades into white noise as I stab at my untouched salad, watching vinaigrette pool like tiny amber lakes on the pristine white plate. Across from me, Della’s blue eyes radiate concern, her slender fingers wrapped around her water glass as if anchoring herself to our table.
“He called me at two in the morning,” I say, my voice barely rising above the clinking silverware around us. “Two in the morning, Della. After he’d been with her.”
"Oh, Betsy.” Della reaches across the table, her touch warm against my cold fingers. Sunlight streams through the restaurant’s window, catching in her brown hair, turning the edges to copper. “You don’t know that for sure.”
"I know Devon’s patterns by now.” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “Seven years gives you a Ph.D. in someone’s bullshit. He saves the best for others and gives me scraps.”
Della sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly beneathher cream blouse. “You deserve more than scraps, Bets. You know that.”
"Do I?” I push a cherry tomato around my plate, watching it leave a trail of dressing like a tiny red boat on a flavorless sea. “Sometimes I wonder if this is just... what love is. Messy. Painful."
“That’s not love,” Della says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. I’ve seen that gesture in countless conversations about Devon over the years. “That’s just... habit.”
The word stings like lemon juice in a paper cut. Habit. Like the way I still keep his favorite craft IPA—that pretentious small-batch stuff with the bearded hipster on the label—lined up in my fridge door like tiny amber sentinels. The way I still sleep curled against the left edge of my mattress, leaving his side pristine and untouched, as if the memory of him might evaporate if I dare stretch out into that sacred territory.
“Says the woman who’s been waiting for Jared to propose for five years.” The words catapult from my mouth like escaped prisoners. Della’s eyes widen—that particular shade of hurt that makes her left eyelid twitch slightly.
“Five years and seventy-three days,” she corrects, twisting that sad little silver band on her right hand—the one Jared presented in a velvet box that cruelly mimicked an engagement ring box. “But we’re dissecting your train wreck, not mine.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, lunging for her hand like it’s a life preserver. “That was a low blow. I’m a first-class jerk for projectile-vomiting my frustrations onto you. You’re basically a saint for putting up with me.”
“We’re both a little pathetic, aren’t we?" Della’s smile is gentle, forgiving. “At least you get to design beautiful buildings. I just market other people’s dreams while putting mine on hold.”
The restaurant door swings open, bringing with it a gust of autumn air and Liana’s unmistakable presence. She moves through the space like she owns it, her dark hair cascading down her back, hazel eyes scanning the room until they lock on us. Men turn to watch her approach, but she pays them no mind, her focus entirely on our table.
“Sorry I’m late,” Liana announces, sliding into the chair beside me. Her perfume – something expensive and subtle – envelops me. “Traffic was a nightmare, and my last client wouldn’t stop talking.” She pauses, studying my face. "What’s wrong? You look like hell."
“Devon,” Della supplies, giving Liana a meaningful look.
“Again?” Liana signals for a waiter without breaking eye contact with me. “I thought we discussed this the last time you entertained his bullshit.”
“It’s complicated,” I murmur, the defense sounding weak even to my own ears.
“No, honey, nuclear physics is complicated. This is just sad." “You’re a successful architect. You’re gorgeous. You could have any man you want, and yet you’re clinging to a guy who treats you like his backup plan.” No, honey, nuclear physics is complicated. The Hadron Collider is complicated. Your taxes are complicated. This is just sad.” Liana orders a martini without looking at the menu, then turns back to me, her eyes softening slightly beneath her perfect winged eyeliner. "You’re a successful architect who can calculate load-bearing walls in her sleep. You’regorgeous in that effortless way that makes women hate you at spin class. You could have any man with a pulse and functioning frontal lobe, and yet you’re clinging to a guy who treats you like his backup plan—like that wrinkled emergency shirt men keep in their office drawer for when they spill coffee."
“Liana,” Della cautions, always the peacemaker.
“No, she needs to hear this.” Liana leans forward, her gold hoop earrings catching the light as she moves, her voice dropping to a velvet-edged murmur that somehow cuts sharper than a shout.
“Devon is dead weight, dragging you down like an anchor tied to your ankle. He only feels confident enough to play the field because he knows you’ll be waiting in your apartment with those Egyptian cotton sheets he loves when the twenty-somethings with their perfect bodies reject him. You’re his safety net, Betsy. His ego boost when the world bruises him.” The truth of her words burns through me, settling in my chest like hot coals beneath my breastbone, searing away the excuses I’ve been crafting for years. My throat constricts, eyes stinging with tears I refuse to shed in this crowded bistro where the waiters glide by with steaming plates of pasta.
