"Liar."
She smiles. "Okay, maybe not excited. But Richard's talked about you. They know you're important to me."
"I'm sure they're thrilled."
"Max." Her voice goes soft. Serious. She reaches across the table again, both hands this time, palms up in offering. "I need you to hear me, okay? Nothing about this changes how much I love you. You're not losing me. You're not being replaced. We're just... expanding."
Expanding.
Like I'm a business acquisition. A line item in Richard Graves's portfolio.
I force a smile. Feel my lips curve up even though nothing inside me feels like smiling. "When's the wedding?"
"Three weeks."
Jesus.
"Fast," I manage. The word comes out strangled.
"When you know, you know." She's watching me too closely. Reading me the way she always does. "You can tell me if you're not okay with this."
But what would that do? Make her choose? Make her give up her happiness because I'm too fucked up to handle change?
No.
"I'm okay with it," I lie. The words taste like ash. "I want you to be happy."
"I want you to be happy too."
I take another sip of cider. Just cold. Just wet. Just something to do with my hands.
"I will be," I say.
And maybe if I say it enough times, it'll be true.
Later, after Margot goes to bed, after I help her with the dishes and hug her goodnight and tell her again that I'm fine, really, I'm fine, I sit in my room and stare at the walls.
They're covered in things I've collected over four years. Posters from bookstores. Dog-eared and faded at the edges from sunlight. Postcards from places I've never been. Paris. Tokyo. Iceland. All places I'll probably never see. A corkboard filled with story ideas scribbled on index cards—characters, plot threads, worlds I build when this one gets too heavy. Some cards are so old the ink is fading. Some are fresh from yesterday. A constellation of maybes and what-ifs.
My laptop sits open on my desk, a half-finished short story blinking at me. The cursor blinks. Blinks. Blinks. The cursor mocks me from the middle of a sentence I can't finish.
Creative Writing major, the course catalog said.For students passionate about storytelling.
I'm passionate. I'm just also terrified.
Because writers are supposed to be brave. Supposed to bleed onto the page and call it art.
And I'm good at bleeding, but I'm shit at being brave.
I pull the pill bottle from my pocket and set it on my desk. Three left.
Three little pills between me and everything I've spent eleven years hiding.
You're disgusting.
I close my eyes. Press my palms against them until I see spots. Until the pressure builds and builds and almost hurts.
When I open them, I close the story document. The cursor disappears. The blank white screen goes dark. I can't write. Not fiction. Not when my own life is imploding.
