He pauses, glances between us like he’s considering it, then shrugs and grabs a crab rangoon, drowning it in sauce. The crunch echoes like the punchline to his shameless joke.
Ansel and I lock eyes, laughing as we dig in. Donovan swipes a piece of her sushi, pops it in his mouth, and immediately chokes. He coughs so hard the fizz from his soda sputters up, his face flushing red.
“Holy shit, that’s a punch to the goddamn mouth!” he gasps, gulping down the rest of his soda before reaching for water, eyes watering like crazy.
Ansel cackles, absolutely delighted, the sound ricocheting off the kitchen walls like she just won the lottery. “Yeah, but at least it apologizes with honey at the end, you big baby.”
Donovan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still coughing and sputtering, eyes watering like he just lost a bar fight with wasabi. “That’s precisely what you two are—sweet, but trying to kill me first.”
I shovel orange chicken into my mouth, nearly choking from laughing at him, and point at him with my chopsticks. “Gotta keep you on your toes, babe.”
“I’ll be leaving for Agave Hills in a few days,” I say, quickly snagging the last rangoon. “I’ll be there an extra week. The Sweeney Todd shows are on December 18th, 19th, and 20th. I’d love for both of you to come out—we could do some sightseeing, shopping, and eat our weight in carbs.”
Donovan doesn’t answer right away. His phone screen glows against his face, his brow furrowed as his thumb scrolls faster and faster. The crinkle of the rangoon bag feels loud in the silence, my own chopsticks suspended midair.
“No, shit. This can’t happen.” The anger seeps from his voice, sharp enough to cut through the kitchen air. His scrolling stops with a snap of his thumb against the screen.
“Babe, you’re scaring me.” I set down my chopsticks, the clatter against the plate too loud in the sudden silence.
He sighs, eyes still on his phone. “Championship’s the nineteenth. If we’re still in it, I’ll miss your shows.”
I grab his hand, steadying the slight tremor in his fingers. “It’s okay, D. We both have big things going on. Maybe you can take a red-eye. The shows don’t start until five.”
I lean in and kiss him gently, hoping he feels the calm I’m trying to give him. “We’ll figure it out. I love you. Don’t stress.”
“Yeah, Muscle Sprout, wouldn’t want your hair falling out,” Ansel adds sweetly as she ruffles his thick hair, making it stick up in messy tufts.
“Oh, stop it. Donovan’s hairline is too stubborn to retreat,” I tease back, catching the flicker of sadness he tries to hide—the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
After dishes, the three of us crash out on the couch with a football game humming in the background. Donovan stretches long, his bare feet propped on the coffee table, while my head rests in his lap. He absently twirls a strand of my hair between his fingers, the slow rhythm soothing even against the muted roar of the crowd on TV. Ansel and I each have a book in hand,pages rustling softly in the quiet. She’s curled up in a ball at the far end, blanket slipping from her shoulders, nose buried so deep she doesn’t even notice when she bursts into laughter at a line. The living room still smells faintly of soy sauce and fried food, but the hush that settles over us feels warm and steady, like the three of us fit here without trying.
The next morning, a low vibration hums against the nightstand on Donovan’s side of the bed. His side. Occasionally, it feels like he lives here now. I roll over—but the sheets are cold where his body should be. Odd. We usually linger in bed on Sundays.
I reach for his phone, the glass cool in my palm, just in case it’s his dad. But the screen lights up, bright in the dim room: Chelsea (Local #).
I freeze. My stomach plummets. Who the fuck is Chelsea?
I set the phone down like it burns and lean back against the cold headboard, my heart pounding so hard it feels like the whole bed should shake with it. He’s not cheating. Right? He wouldn’t.
The door creaks, and Donovan steps inside, sweat dripping down his temples, shirt clinging to his chest. His easy smile falters the second he sees me.
“Star? What’s wrong?”
“Who the fuck is Chelsea?”
“Chelsea? Did she call? Shit. I texted her last night to call me Monday morning, not today.” He crosses the room fast, using his shirt to wipe the sweat dripping down his face, movements sharp and urgent. He snatches his phone from the nightstand and fumbles to unlock the screen, his calm words at odds with the panic in his hands.
“Oh, you texted her. To call you on Monday. Got it. I’m your weekend girlfriend, and Chelsea is your Monday-through-Thursday girlfriend. Perfect.”
The words taste like acid on my tongue as I jump off the bed and storm to the bathroom. The door slams behind me so hard the walls shake, knocking pictures off the nails and sending frames clattering to the floor.
“Stella, what the fuck is going on? You’re myonlygirlfriend. And we only see each other on weekends because that wasyourrule.”
I yank the bathroom door open so fast it smacks against the wall with a crack, making him flinch. My chest heaves, fury burning hot in my throat.
“So it’s my fault you need someone else to talk to during the week? I set boundaries when you accepted a job across the country without talking to me first—without even asking what I wanted. And now it’s on me that you can’t keep your dick in your pants?”
With shaking hands, I yank on the first pair of jeans I can find, snatch my jacket off the chair, and storm toward the front door, my footsteps thudding against the floor.
