“Yeah, maybe I’ll embroider it on a pillow.” My voice wobbles, but I push on. “What now is...I survive. I plaster on a professional smile, I treat whoever doesn’t bail, and I pray the internet finds a new chew toy.”
Liz doesn’t buy it. Her nurse face is gone; this is the best-friend face—sharper, scarier. “And Nate?”
My throat closes. Just his name makes the tears threaten again. I look away, blinking hard. “He’s not the problem.”
She arches a brow, sharp as a scalpel. “Eden.”
“He’s not,” I repeat, fiercer this time. But even as I say it, part of me knows the truth is more complicated. The societal conditioning runs deeper than logic. “The problem is me. I let myself forget my rules. I let myself want something, and the second I took it, the universe reminded me I’m not allowed.”
Liz exhales, long and slow, probably counting to ten in her head. “That’s the biggest pile of crap I’ve heard this year. And I work with men who think I can’t find their veins.”
I choke out a laugh-sob, swiping at my face. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that my business is bleeding before it even got started, and if I don’t figure out a way around it, everything I’ve worked for goes down the drain.”
My phone buzzes with another text. Liz puts the phone on Do Not Disturb and flips it facedown.
“Block those idiots. Let them suffocate on their own testosterone fumes. Tomorrow, we remind the world how badass girls get shit done.”
36
DISTANCE (NATE)
The house is too damn quiet.
Game-day quiet is usually my sanctuary. Low lights, muted highlights looping on the TV, everything tuned down to the sound of my own breath. Ritual. Rhythm. Reset.
Not this week.
It’s been five days since social media turned our lives into a bonfire. The first spark was a grainy clip from a restaurant in Montreal: me and Eden at a corner table, heads bent too close, smiles too easy. From there it snowballed. The W Gramercy videos Jessica had buried weeks ago resurfaced and started looping. My so-called “caveman routine” was everywhere. And no matter how good Jess is, this time she couldn’t make them vanish.
But if social media has the attention span of a toddler, at least I’ve got Jessica, Rowan, and Joy in my corner. Jess ran interference, Rowan handled the official lines, and Joy—the Defenders’ social media whisperer—flooded the ether with distractions and sleight-of-hand narratives. Eden still tookthe hit, but the tide shifted enough to keep her from being completely swallowed.
It’s been four days since I met Leo halfway, impersonating an idiot who wanted to lose a girl. Four days since Eden told me she needed distance…and then proved she meant it.
She hasn’t picked up a single call. She’s texted, sure; polite, clipped check-ins about scheduling and the clinic.Busy with opening week. Please let me be for now.Every word a scalpel. Every “for now” a lifeline I can’t tell if I’m inventing.
The blender’s still out, jar sweating on the counter. Two glasses. Mine half gone. Hers waiting.
My phone lights up, and for a second, I brace for Eden calling to cancel our last session. She wouldn’t. She’s too professional for that.
It’s Ryan.
I swipe. “Hey, man.”
“I’m not asking how you’re doing.”
“Appreciated. Did you talk to Eden?”
“I did. And before you go there—no, I’m not asking her to call you. You fix your own mess. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Yeah. It’s a mess. She’s not answering my calls.”
Ryan snorts. “From what Leo says, he’s getting the same treatment. Sounds like you two put on a hell of a show in her clinic, so I’m checking in before one of you punches the wrong wall.”
A humorless breath escapes me. “Good to know I’m not the only sucker she’s icing out.”
“From where I’m sitting, you both earned it.”
“Probably.” I pause. “So, you talked to her?”
