Around me, life moved on.
Dani watered the orchids, lovers on awkward first dates angled for a kiss, a woman licked espresso foam off her husband’s lip, eyes closed like it meant something.
Everyone was in love or desperately trying, and here I was, trying not to be.
Then—the door didn’t even close yet before the air shifted all too quickly.
Ben walked in like someone who belonged in a noir movie.
Dark navy scrubs clinging to his massive body in a way I’m sure they weren’t designed to, hair combed so neatly I wanted to mess it all up, jaw freshly shaved, sharp enough to cut.
He was buried in his phone, two fingers raised at the counter, and my brain immediately remembered them roaming my body.
Flushed, I started counting blue things to cope.My mug. The guy’s sweater. Ben’s shirt...Ben’s pants...
I groaned—not helping—and dropped the pencil in a betrayal of nerves.
He caught the sound, looked right at me, and my chair scraped before I knew it as I stood up, all clumsy, my voice small. “Hi, Ben.”
He held my gaze, flat as the wall behind him, then turned back to Dani, like I was air and smiled at her, one finger explaining something she giggled at.
Which made me realize he came there on purpose.
Throat burning, I wanted to storm the counter, snatch him by the collar, and yell:This is my place. I told you about it and you dare to come here to torture me? Get out!
Instead, I sat down, my body shaking from the fury.
He did that thing with his eyes—looking at Dani too long, lashes practically seducing her, gave her extra change, and slipped out, carrying two coffees, nose back in his phone.
Dani mouthed a starry-eyed "Wow" at me. I flipped the notebook, glaring at the Bs and it hit me—it looked like a bunch of ass cheeks, for the ass he is.
Then Wednesday passed unnoticed, so did Thursday, Friday. Every damn day.
And now? Another soundtrack-free morning with gray light filtering through the curtains.
Somewhere in the back room of my heart, I’m raging and crying. I don’t know what’s worse at this point, battling my nightmares or waking up dead inside. So I lie here without any reaction.
My mother says girls who cry or rage look ugly, and nobody wants ugly girls. Not boys. Not mothers.
Which reminds me, I haven’t answered three of her texts, haven’t been a daughter.
Sigh.
When I finally make it to the kitchen, Richard’s halfway out the door, tapping his phone like Morse code for I’m pissed.
No good morning, just: "You forgot to buy milk. Again."
His gaze snags on my shirt—Chase Stars, Not Paychecks—and he scowls like I’ve just insulted his entire banking career.
"Fundraiser tonight. You don’t have to come. Then midnight billiards. So don’t wait up."
The door slams before I can answer. I pull the shirt down, half-asleep—at least I found a way to dodge the invitations.
Things haven’t been great between us, which isn’t surprising considering what Ben and I did at the court.
Richard doesn’t talk about it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out my hidden obsession with someone who isn’t him.
I need to do some marital damage control.
