They haven’t even been together for a year.Not even a year.And he’s already proposing.Chase and I were together for—what?Ten years, if you count high school.A decade of my life spent with someone who told me over and over that marriage was just a piece of paper.That our love was bigger than that.That we didn’t need a ring or a ceremony to prove what we meant to each other.
I waited.God, I waited.I hoped.I dropped hints.I sent him pictures of rings I liked, casually, like it didn’t mean anything.And he always smiled and said, ‘Someday, Liv.When the timing’s right.’
Apparently the timing’s right now.Just not with me.
“Ma’am?”
I blink.The barista is staring at me, her expression hovering somewhere between concern and impatience.Behind her, there’s a chalkboard menu decorated with hand-drawn snowflakes and candy canes.“What can I get you?”
I open my mouth.Close it.Coffee isn’t going to cut it.
“Actually,” I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, “never mind.”
I step out of line, ignoring the annoyed huff from the person behind me, and scan the concourse.There, past the overpriced gift shop selling “Carolina Christmas” ornaments and the newsstand with magazines I’ll never read, I spot it.One of those generic airport bars with high-top tables and a TV playing ESPN on mute.
Perfect.
I make my way over, weaving through families with crying babies and business travelers glued to their phones.The bar is half-empty, which makes sense for three in the afternoon.Most people are still pretending they’re functional adults at this hour.
I slide onto a barstool and drop my carry-on at my feet.The bartender—a guy in his fifties with a name tag that says ‘Rick’—wanders over, wiping down the counter with a towel that’s seen better days.
“What can I get you?”
I think about ordering wine.Something socially acceptable for three o’clock.Something that says I’m fine, just killing time before my flight.
But I’m not fine.
“Whiskey,” I say.“Neat.”
Rick raises an eyebrow.“Any preference?”
“Whatever you’ve got that’ll get the job done.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh and reaches for a bottle of Maker’s Mark.Not top-shelf, but not bottom either.He pours two fingers into a rocks glass and slides it across the bar.
I take a sip.It burns going down, sharp and unforgiving, and that’s exactly what I need right now.Something that reminds me I’m still here, still breathing, even if it feels like my chest is caving in.
My phone pings again.
Sophie:‘you ok?’
No.I'm not okay.I'm the opposite of okay.I'm sitting at an airport bar at three in the afternoon, drinking whiskey neat because my ex-boyfriend, who told me foryearsthat we didn’t need a ring to prove anything, is apparently ready to marry someone else.
But I can't tell Sophie that.She's fourteen.She doesn't need to know her big sister is currently spiraling.
Me: ‘I’m fine.Thanks for the heads up.’
Sophie: ‘do you want me to egg his house?’
Despite everything, I smile.
Me: ‘Tempting.But no.’
Sophie: ‘offer stands’
I set my phone down on the bar and take another sip.The whiskey settles warm in my stomach, and I focus on that instead of the ache in my chest.
Amber and Chase are getting engaged.I repeat it to myself over and over, like if I say it enough times, it’ll stop feeling like a punch to the gut.It doesn’t work.
