I scrolled through the bakery project files I was working on, pretending to care about serif spacing, but my mind drifted back to the farmer’s market. Back toEric.
Seeing him with his yoga instructor had been as stupidly painful as stepping on a Lego. I’d brushed it off, pushed it down with Roman’s ridiculous antics and too-perfect kiss. But now?
Now it hit like a freight train.
I couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t just cheated, hadn’t just lied, but he’dchosenher. I’d always suspected he had a crush on Bianca, and seeing them together only confirmed my suspicions. I didn’t know whether he’d cheated physically or had just decided to pursue her while we were still together, but one thing was perfectly fucking clear. He was giving her the relationship I wanted. Freely. Publicly.
Bianca looked like she’d been plucked from a catalog titledMindful & Toned: The Intimidatingly Serene Edition.
Exhibit A: Her sleek, smooth body. The kind of yoga-toned you got when your jobwasyour hobby, and your hobby was your personality. I didn’t hate my body. I had strength, curves, thekind of softness that was real. But next to her, I felt… too much. Not enough.
Exhibit B: That attitude. She’d watched me with zero reaction, like none of it mattered. Like she wasn’t at all concerned about the woman Eric had spent three years with. I couldn’t fake that level of detachment no matter how hard I tried. Ifeltthings. Loudly.
Exhibit C: Eric. She had him. She hadmyhistory. My bed. My future.
Probably my throw pillows, too.
I stood and yanked the freezer open, grabbing the emergency pint of Ben and Jerry’s I’d hidden behind a bag of peas I would never eat. Spoon. Blanket. Couch. The holy trifecta of heartbreak management.
The first spoonful tasted like surrender. I didn’t even pretend to hold it together. The tears came in hot, miserable waves. It wasn’t elegant or cinematic. No, it was full-snot, puffy-faced crying.
I needed noise. I neededanythingelse. I turned on the TV.
And ofcourse, The Notebookwas playing.
“Fuck my life,” I muttered, but I didn’t change the channel. Because of course I didn’t. I cried into my cookie dough ice cream as if Rachel McAdams herself had come to kick me while I was down.
I was halfway through a sob when I heard keys fumbling at the door. Shit. Roman.
There was no time to wipe my face or pretend I had it together. I was a sad little burrito of despair.
The door opened. Roman stepped in and froze when he saw me.
Swollen eyes. Red nose. Mascara somewhere near my jawline. Even so, I made direct eye contact. My pride had left thirty minutes ago and wasn’t returning anytime soon.
Without saying a word, he walked to the kitchen, grabbed a spoon, and crossed the room. He took a blanket out of the basket next to the couch, then sat down beside me and tucked it around us like this was a regular Tuesday and not a full-blown emotional catastrophe.
Then he scooped a bite of my ice cream, popped it into his mouth, and mumbled, “This is such a great movie.”
I gaped at him. Roman was an enigma. The man could flirt like a menace one minute and become the human embodiment of a safe harbor the next. He didn’t talk. Didn’t press. He simply existed beside me.
I kept crying, tears steadily tracking down my face, but I didn’t feel ashamed about it. Roman didn’t make me feel like I had to be smaller or quieter or more together than I was.
Halfway through the movie, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a small, firm squeeze. That single moment—no words, no performance—was like a lifeline.
Like I could break and still be wanted in the wreckage.
I didn’t thank him. I didn’t have to.
And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t feel alone.
Chapter 7
Roman
When the credits rolled,the room was bathed in that soft, blue glow that made everything feel a little quieter and a little more fragile. Maggie didn’t say anything, just kept staring at the screen like maybe, if she looked hard enough, she could keep the heartache at bay.
I stayed beside her, one arm still resting along the back of the couch. She hadn’t pulled away all night. She’d cried. Really cried. And not once had I felt awkward or out of place. I didn’t know what to say. That Eric was a dumbass? That she was worth more than some yoga-obsessed manchild who couldn’t see what he had? That I would’ve never picked someone else, not if I had her?
