His raw confession steals the air between us. It’s disarming, how simply he says what others never would.
Sam’s attentiveness is such a contrast to the latter half of my marriage. Pete’s silence had been a slow erosion, his indifference a shadow that lengthened over the years until I could barely see myself. I shrank inside it, dulled by the weight of being unseen. Somewhere in the midst of it all, I forgot how to laugh, how to embrace beautiful, how to beme.
He easily steers the conversation into lighter territory, carried by laughter and another glass of wine. I tell him somemore about design, about the joy of creating spaces that feel alive. He listens like it matters, likeImatter.
By the time we reach the bar, the city buzzes with energy even as the weekend is winding down. Inside, the crowd is loud and close, bodies brushing past in waves of music and perfume. Sam finds my hand and threads his fingers through mine, guiding me toward my friends.
Sin waves from a corner booth where she’s trapped between a laughing couple I’ve never seen before and Erin, who’s already halfway through her next flirtation with the guy next to her. Erin readily introduces us to their new friends while Sin and I share an amused look.
Sam and I have barely settled in around the table when a voice squeals over the noise. “Sam. Mon Dieu, it’ssogood to see you.”
A blonde, five-foot-nothing woman drapes her petite frame over him, practically climbing into his lap. He’s stunnedbut it doesn’t stop her from plastering her chest against his and wrapping her hands around his neck.
She kisses him on the cheek, not once, not twice, but three times. Is it a French thing or is she extra friendly? Either way, I don’t like it.
Sam tenses and drops my hand as he manages a polite smile. “Yasmine, hi. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful now you’re here.” Her French accent is thick and inviting. She clings tighter, her high-pitched laugh slicing through the music. “Papa is here. You must say hello before he leaves.”
I strain to hear her over the loud music, catching only half of what she says before she slips into French. My high school French isn’t that great. Still, I understand enough with her body language alone to know she’s staking a claim.
Sam looks to me apologetically. I swallow the lump in my throat and my irrational wish for him to get rid of her. As if hearing my thoughts, he gently nudges her out of his arms, motioning to me, but she barely moves an inch. I can’t say I blame her. I wish it was me in his arms.
Reluctantly, she peers over her shoulder in my direction and he introduces us, still trying to extricate himself from her hold. “Yasmine Thibault, this is Olivia Cassidy. Yasmine’s father is a friend.”
The blonde leech with her plastic smile and blank eyes assesses me in less than a beat and she swivels back to Sam. Not so much as a word for me.
Her thin, stringy hair whips past my shoulder and I want nothing more than to yank on it.Shit, where did that come from?I’m a grown woman, and this gnat brings out the mean girl in me.
Not good.
I will not bethatwoman, no matter what’s happening right now. This isn’t who I am, and Sam and I mean nothing to each other. Even with the truth of the matter, I can’t seem to lift the heaviness weighing on my chest.
He glances at me apologetically. “Olivia, excuse me a moment? Her father is?—”
“No need to explain. Go.”
He stands with one hand clasping my knee, gently squeezing, calming me. Yasmine’s gaze narrows at where we’re touching.
I force a smile, though brittle, for him and watch Sam saunter toward an older, portly man talking to someone else many feet away.
Yasmine doesn’t leave with him. Instead, she slides into his vacant chair. “Olivia? And what exactly are you to Sam?”
She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. There’s no room for misunderstanding. Her intentions are crystal clear.
I meet her gaze evenly, refusing to squirm under the weight of her scrutiny. “A friend.”
Her brows lift, as if she’s hoping for more, but I simply offer a faint smile. The kind you give to someone you’ve already decided isn’t worth the energy. Then I reach for my glass, letting the pause stretch long enough to make it clear. Conversation over.
“Ah.” Amused, she twists the word like silk around her tongue, undeterred. “Sam has so many friends.” Her grin is sickly, her eyes sharp. “The other night, he cooked a special dinner for me. It was my birthday. He doesn’t do that for just anyone.”
I smile, calm and practiced, though my heart thuds. “How nice for you.”
Perhaps sensing the strain radiating off me, Sin taps my shoulder and saves me from myself. Without a glance at Yasmine, I turn toward her and let the conversation with the young couple wash over me. They’re chatting about bedtime routines and toddlers refusing to eat vegetables. I nod where appropriate, smile even, but I’m only half there.
Because I can stillfeelYasmine behind me, like static in the air. It isn’t until she’s gone that I give in to the foolish impulse to look over my shoulder. She’s joined Sam and her father now, and the three of them stand together as if they belong in the same frame.
When they finally drift out of sight—Sam not once looking back—a chill creeps through me. It’s not jealousy, not really. It’s something older, more familiar. The quiet sting of being overlooked. Of not being chosen.
