She lets out a humorless laugh. “Everyone says that too.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
Her chin wobbles as she blinks back tears. “I keep thinking… Was I that easy to replace? Ten years, Oliver.” She looks at me with glassy eyes. “I gave him my twenties, and he made me a cliché.”
I want to find Bobby Jones and shove my foot so far up his ass he can taste the leather from my boot.
“You were never easy to replace, Jenna. He never deserved you.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
“You don’t even know me,” she whispers.
“I know more than you think.” Curiosity swirls across her face, but I don’t elaborate. “What I know is that you are not background noise. You’re the whole damn song. And he’s tone-deaf.”
Her laugh this time is real, quiet but genuine. A tear slips free anyway, tracking down her supple cheek. Before I can think too hard about it, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb. She leans into the touch, like she’s starved for it. The trust she shows me in one tiny gesture punches me right in the chest.
“I hate him for hurting you,” I admit, my voice low. “But I’ve always kind of hated him, to be honest. Even back in school. He was all swagger, no substance. Just a bully without brains. The only things he had going for him were looks and sports. Guess that was enough.”
“Wow,” she says softly. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I would, but I’m trying to control my anger in public.”
She sniffs, a half laugh catching on the sound. “You’re supposed to say something generic like ‘it’ll get better’ or ‘time heals all wounds.’”
“Time heals some wounds,” I deadpan, and she giggles. “The rest you fix with chocolate and petty revenge.”
That finally gets a real smile out of her.
“About that,” she says. “You really put ghost peppers in it?”
“Oh yeah.” I lean back, letting my mouth curve. “You wanted him to choke, right?”
Her eyes sparkle, mischief cutting through the sadness. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Then trust me. This is one gift he’ll never forget.”
Jenna stares at me for another long moment, like she’s seeing me from a slightly different angle. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “For listening. For not telling me to just get over it.”
I shrug, though the knot in my chest tightens. “You’re allowed to be hurt, Princess. You’re allowed to be mad. You’re allowed to grieve what you thought you had.”
She nods slowly, then looks down at her empty glass.
“You’ll move on when your heart’s ready.”
She contemplates my words before she winces. “Wow. I am definitely going to regret this tomorrow.”
“The drink or the emotional monologue?”
“Both.”
“You will regret nothing about this conversation,” I say firmly. “But youaregoing to regret that last cocktail. You’ve had quite a few tonight.”
She grimaces. “You’re not wrong. Everything feels… floaty.”
“Then it’s time to go.” I push my chair back and stand, offering her a hand. “Come on, Princess. I’ll take you home.”
She blinks up at me. “You don’t have to do that. I can call an Uber or something.”
