She winces, like the words physically hurt.
“Brandon isn’t it for you.”
The sentence sits between us.
I force a laugh. “Sophie, please. You barely tolerate your own husband. You’re not exactly the love expert.”
She waves a hand. “True. My husband is a walking garbage fire. The man flirts with anything alive, including the barista who’s fifty-two.”
I snort despite myself.
“But,” she continues, leaning forward, “he’s passionate. About me. About us. About… whatever version of marriage he thinks we have.”
“That’s not better,” I mutter.
“Maybe not. But it’s something.” She points her straw at me. “Brandon doesn’t even give you that. He doesn’t fight for you. He doesn’t choose you. Half the time I’m convinced he forgets you exist.”
“That’s not fair,” I say.
“Claire,” she says softly, “he treats his job like the wife. You’re the mistress.”
I swallow.
Because I’ve thought that exact thing.
During dinners where he answered emails instead of speaking to me, during dates he cancelled last minute, during nights I spent alone while he claimed he was exhausted.
Sophie sees the reaction in my face.
Her expression softens.
“You deserve someone who wants you. Not someone you constantly have to beg for his time.”
My chest tightens.
“Ethan asked you something important,” she says quietly. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear it.”
I know what that is:
Are you happy?
I close my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Ethan.”
“Then don’t,” she replies. “Just answer the question.”
I shake my head, trying to collect myself. “It’s not that simple, when he’s here everything is good.”
“It is.” Sophie’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “But that is very rare, and you’re lonely, Claire.”
I open my mouth to deny it.
Then shut it slowly.
Because I am.
Lonely in a relationship that looks stable on paper but feels like too much weight to carry on my own.
Lonely with a man who’s physically beside me but emotionally five steps away. Lonely in ways I didn’t know were possible with someone who’s supposed to care.
