Now everything felt wrong.
I pushed back from my desk, rubbing my hands over my face. I was still angry with him. Still hurt. Still not ready to forgive him for making decisions about my life like I wasn’t capable of handling it myself.
But damn it, I missed him.
I missed his teasing, his unwavering confidence, the way he could read my moods with just a glance. I missed the way he made everything feel lighter. I missed his presence, even though he was on the other side of the café.
What was I supposed to do with these feelings?
I sighed, leaning back in my chair, staring at my empty inbox like it held the answer.
It didn’t.
And right now neither did I.
“Where’s Noah?” my mom asked, her tone casual as she poured me a glass of water. “We were hoping to meet him.”
I blinked, trying to shove down the pang of discomfort that hit me. Dinner with my parents had crept up faster than I anticipated. Maybe it was because I’d been throwing every ounce of my energy into my blog these past few days. Repurposing old, unpublished articles that Victoria had rejected atRoamer’s Digestand finally using my own photography, my way. I’d poured myself into it, and it felt freeing. But Noah was still a fresh wound.
I had brought up Noah to my parents a few times. They followed my blog and occasionally checked social media, so he wasn’t a secret I could hide from them anyways.
“Oh.” I fumbled for a moment, even though I’d rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in my head. “We broke up.”
The words dropped like stones into the room. Both of my parents froze, jaws slightly open in surprise.
The clink of silverware on plates halted, and suddenly, the air felt heavier.
“I’m sorry, baby,” my mom said, her voice gentle as she sat down across from me at the dinner table. Her eyes softened with concern, searching mine for more information.
“It’s fine. It happens.” I shrugged, trying to brush it off, but the truth was more complicated.
“But you guys were in a fake relationship, right?” my dad asked, his brows knitting together as he stabbed a piece of sausage with a little too much force. His mustache had grown and curled at the ends. Something about that, and the tired chestnut eyes, made me feel nostalgic.
I laughed. A fake relationship sounded extra silly when my dad was saying it. “Yeah. It always had an expiration date. We just decided to go our separate ways early.”
I wondered if they could understand that. My parents hadbeen together since they were sixteen, through every challenge and complication life threw at them. Their bond was built on years of shared experiences and resilience, forged through being young parents who had to grow up fast. I admired their marriage, their ability to weather any storm that came their way.
But Noah and I were different. We didn’t have that kind of foundation. Now, without him, I feared people would start asking questions, speculating about why we had broken up. People would think they knew more than they did.
Mom gave me a small, encouraging smile, her eyes kind. Her blonde hair was pinned up today, but a few stray strands had escaped, falling loosely around her face. Dad, with the ease of a partner who had done this a thousand times before, reached over and gently tucked the loose strands back into place.
It was a simple gesture, but one that spoke volumes. He had always been good at the little things—taking care of us in the small, meaningful ways that added up over time.
Despite everything that had gone wrong between us, Noah had taken care of me, too. In his own way. He carried a spare inhaler for me, just in case. He left me notes on bad days, little reminders that I wasn’t alone. And he had encouraged me to leaveRoamer’s Digest, even when I wasn’t ready to hear the truth. He saw things in me I hadn’t seen in myself.
“Well, he’s missing out,” Mom said firmly, breaking the silence and snapping me back to the present.
I managed a weak smile, appreciating her attempt to comfort me, even if the words didn’t quite land the way she intended.
“Anyways,” Dad said, changing the subject as he poured more sauce onto his plate. “How’s work?”
Here it was, the moment every child dreaded telling their parents.Just be honest, Macey. You’ve got this.
“Actually…” I hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I got fired.”
For the second time that evening, both of my parents’ jawsdropped. Mom’s fork clattered against her plate, her wide eyes darting toward the ceiling as if searching for divine intervention.
“It really sucked at first,” I continued quickly, trying to keep the conversation from spiraling into panic mode. “But honestly? It’s been a good thing.”
