She gives me the kind of smile meant for cameras, not me, which only adds to the tension I am feeling tonight, and we head downstairs.
The car waiting outside smells like leather and champagne.Cameras flash as we step out; her hand slips automatically onto my arm, not because she wants to hold it but because it photographs well.We have been together long enough that I know which side to stand on and how to ensure she always looks her best.
Inside the car, the world narrows to tinted glass and silence.She scrolls through her phone, rehearsing the captions for later.
I stare out at the blur of city lights and think of the ridge, black sky, frozen fields, maybe a fire pit glowing beside the old barn.
I look over to Brielle and watch her for a moment.
“You look beautiful,” I say, because I realize I haven’t yet.
She smiles, soft but practiced.“Thank you.”
Her attention’s already back on her screen.
I nod, tell myself I’ll plan something, a quick trip somewhere warm once the schedule eases up.She likes the beach.Likes the photos more.Maybe that’ll smooth the edges for a while.
This seems to be the cycle our relationship takes.
I think about the ring I bought last year, the one still sitting in my desk drawer with the receipt.Is it time?It hasn't felt right once since I bought it, and I keep telling myself that the perfect time will present itself...
The hotel ballroom is gold and white and too bright.The kind of space where you feel like you shouldn't touch anything.
Laughter clinks like ice in glasses.I know half the room by name, the other half by their wallets.Cameras turn as we walk in, Captain Nathaniel Carson and the woman who looks like perfection beside him.
I hit my lines: shake hands, pose, smile, repeat.
This is part of the job.
Be charismatic.Be grateful.Bethe guy they want to sell.
Brielle slips away after the first round of photos, headed toward the sponsors’ corner.I stay where I’m supposed to stay, nodding through conversations that don’t matter.After an hour of talking to the right people, I look around, and she’s gone.
I excuse myself, weaving through waiters and laughter, and step into a quieter hallway lined with mirrors.
That’s when I see her.
Brielle.
Standing too close to a man in a navy suit, I don’t recognize.He’s laughing, confident, touching a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear like he’s done it a hundred times.
And she lets him.
Shesmilesat him, the kind of soft, genuine smile she never wastes on me anymore.
My chest tightens, and I flex my hands at my side.
What the fuck?
She’s never let me touch her hair.Not even joking.And definitely not in public.Don't even get me started on touching her face.
The guy says something, walks off.She turns and sees me.For a split second, she looks… relieved.Like I just saved her from something or gave her an excuse.
“What the hell was that?”My voice sounds foreign, low and rough.
“Don’t do this here,” she says, quiet but cutting and already edging closer to me to try and contain the situation.
“Do what?Watch my girlfriend flirt with some guy?”
