“You always say that,” I said, the words muffled by a bite of pasta.
Her gaze narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” The word left too fast.
The air shifted around us, turning brittle.
“At least I talk about my relationships,” she snapped.
I swallowed hard.
The café noise crowded in—silverware, laughter, someone’s phone buzzing two tables over.
Forty minutes in that bar. The glass sweating against my palm. My phone dark in my hand.
He hadn’t shown.
Just like the others.
“Candace—”
“No.” She leaned back, arms crossing. “You can’t expect to understand something you never even try—”
“I’m fine,” I cut in.
She didn’t blink. “You need to think about the future. We’re in our thirties. What happens when work isn’t enough?”
Irritation flared. “I’m not you, Candace.”
“No,” she said. “You’re not.”
The words found bone.
“That wasn’t very kind.” The words barely left me.
“And your constant criticisms of me are?”
“You?” I sat back like she’d shoved me.
“Me.” A pause. Then, quieter. “And Garrett.”
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “He cheated on you with a stripper in Miami. He emptied your savings on crypto. He called you a whore for wearing a dress he didn’t like—”
“Stop.” Her tone cracked.
“You deserve better than someone who makes you apologize for existing.”
Something cold settled over her features. “A lot of talk for someone who can’t hold down a man.”
The café noise vanished. Her words, hanging between us like smoke.
Decades of friendship, and this was always the fault line—the one conversation we never survived intact.
She reached for her purse and slid out of the booth. “I need to go.”
“Please don’t leave because you’re upset,” I said, the words scraping on the way out. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Not everything is about you, Emma,” she said over her shoulder.
