“We don’t?” I jerk my hand back so sharply the mug on the side of the table rattles, tea sloshing over the rim. “Because I’m pretty sure you threw it away when you couldn’t keep it in your pants during soundcheck.”
There’s a murmur from a nearby table. The barista pretends not to stare.
Mark’s jaw tightens. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being accurate,” I say. “Here’s how this goes. You stop talking about me in interviews. You stop hinting in your songs that we’re secretly still in love. You stop letting your publicist leak that we ‘might be working on things.’”
He opens his mouth.
I hold up a hand. “And if you don’t, I stop protecting your image and tell the world exactly why I left. Every last detail. With receipts.”
For the first time, real fear grazes across his face.
“Annabelle!”
“This was your one polite warning,” I say, standing. My chair scrapes. “Next round is not polite.”
I grab my purse.
He looks up at me, eyes searching. “You're really picking him over me?”
I consider him, the man I once thought I’d marry, who now feels like an inconvenience with a good stylist.
“I'm picking me over you.” I pause. “And yeah. I am picking Bryce, too.”
I turn and walk out before he can answer, my heart pounding and my hands shaking.
Outside, the cold air hits me like a slap. I suck in a breath, then another, trying to calm my nervous system down. That went about as badly as expected and still somehow worse.
I did the right thing. I know I did.
So why do I feel like I just kicked over a beehive?
I have the strangest sensation as I head down the sidewalk, like I’m being watched. I glance around. Just people, benches, shop windows reflecting the street back at me.
No one I know.
But the feeling doesn’t go away.
***
By the time I make it back to my office at the arena, the buzzing in my chest has migrated to my phone.
It won’t stop vibrating.
I drop into my chair, set my bag down, and finally check the screen.
Thirty-six notifications.
“Oh, good,” I mutter. “That’s never terrifying.”
I tap one at random.
It opens to a gossip account.
The post is a photo. Grainy, zoomed the hell in, but still painfully clear.
Me, sitting in the café. Mark’s hand over mine.
