The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The station smells faintly of damp concrete and something fried from a nearby kiosk.
“He moved his family’s charter,” I say.
Grace stops mid-step. A man behind us nearly walks into her.
“Like… private plane charter?”
“Yes.”
“For you?”
“For more time.”
The train roars into the station before she can respond. Wind whips my hair into my mouth. We squeeze inside with commuters who look like they’ve never kissed anyone on a Caribbean island in their lives.
Grace grabs a pole and stares at me like I just announced I’m running for office.
“That’s rearranging-his-life brain.”
The train lurches forward. I brace my suitcase between my feet. My reflection flickers in the dark tunnel window—salt-tangled hair, tired eyes, something bright underneath.
Maybe that’s the glow Grace’s talking about.
Our apartment is exactly as I left it. Small. Warm. The radiator clanking its usual complaints. My shoes kicked off by the door, blanket pulled from the couch and wrapped around me like emotional armor.
Grace perches on the armrest like a very attentive bird of prey.
"So."
"So."
"You went to a Caribbean wedding to honeytrap a cheating groom."
"Technically, the word isexpose—but why are we rehashing this?"
"You accidentally fell for the best man instead." Grace is relentless and stubborn.
"That's a simplification, but—"
"And now you're in love with a professional hockey player who lives in a different city."
I open my mouth. Close it.
Grace can read me like a children's book. A short one. With large print.
"I didn't say I was in love."
Her expression saysplease.
"Okay fine, maybe I'm in something that rhymes withlove."
"Shove? Glove? All of the Above?"
"You're the worst."
"You're deflecting." Grace leans forward, eyes bright. "Jane. I saw your face when you walked through arrivals. You looked... happy."
The word lands softly. Settles.
