He sighs, and I sense a hundred things unsaid. “You’re good with her,” he says, which isn’t a compliment, just an observation.
“She’s easy to have fun with.”
By the time we reach the ring toss, Livy’s arms are fully operational and she’s ready for combat. Colton kneels beside her, coaching in a mix of Russian and English, his hands showing her how to flick her wrist just right. I watch, pretending to scroll through e-mails on my phone all the while I’m admiring them and trying not to imagine a life like this. I bet those people passing by think I’m his wife and we’re a happy family.
I catch him looking at me twice—once when Livy wins a ring and wants to give it to me “for being the boss,” and once when she hugs his neck so brutally, he nearly tips over. There’s a wariness in his expression, as if he’s waiting for me to lower the boom or call the whole thing off, but I don’t. Not today.
After the second game, I check my watch and tip my chin toward the Ferris wheel, and we head over there. I just… like them. There’s something about being lifted up, suspended for a few quiet minutes, the world shrinking into something manageable beneath your feet. Like everything is briefly put into perspective.
“Can I sit next to you?” Livy asks, already halfway attached to my side.
“Of course, Sweetie,” I say, and she immediately threads her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
We fall into line.
I glance down at our intertwined hands, at the cheap little ring she insisted I wear earlier. It glints in the sunlight—plastic pretending to be something more. If you didn’t look too closely, you could almost mistake it for the real thing.
For a wedding ring.
I huff out a quiet breath.
It feels like the universe is playing some kind of joke on me. Here—have a kid. Have a husband. Have the whole picture. Except none of it is real. I remember rewatchingMary Poppinsa few years ago. They hop into pictures there and pretend the drawn life is real, and somehow, amidst this colorful place filled with strangers, I feel like Mary. Stepping into a pretend world—a world I would love if I were honest with myself for once. In this version of things where everything looks… simpler. Softer.
But then I think of Matthew. Of my apartment. Of him being there. Waiting. That angry look on his face. His snarls. His agonizing. His bad mood.
And something in me resists.
I don’t want to go back.
The realization lands heavier than it should.
I’m almost thirty. We’ve been together for years. Long enough that leaving feels less like a decision and more like tearing something out by the roots. Starting over at this point? It’s fucking terrifying.
And if I’m honest, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.
I just know that the longer I stand here, the less I think about home—about him—the easier it is to breathe and maybe for the first time I truly, honestly, admit that Matthew and I lost each other two years ago. Since then, we’re co-existing. We’re used to living together and that’s all this relationship is about.
Livy tightens her grip around my hand and I’m back in reality. It’s our turn to get on and the ride operator waves usforward with a bored flick of his wrist. Livy’s other hand locks on Colton’s and she pulls us into the gondola, that rocks softly as we climb in, the metal creaking beneath us. The wheel jerks upward, and my stomach drops with the first rotation.
Below us, the carnival shrinks.
All those food stands become dollhouse furniture; people turn to ants. And I take a deep breath. It’s sad, but this is one of the best days I’ve had in a long, long time. At the apex, Livy presses her face against the safety bar and gasps.
Colton’s arm shoots around her waist, knuckles white against her shirt.
I find myself mirroring him, my hand hovering just behind Livy’s back, ready to catch her if needed, and Colton’s gaze meets mine. We both grin. She’s buckled in. It’s all safe, but I suppose we’re both overprotective. Our hands linger at her back, and I pretend not to notice when his fingertips brush against mine…
FOURTEEN
Jenna
The umbrella above our bistro table casts striped shadows across Isla’s face as she laughs at something I’ve said. I don’t remember what. My mind is already three meetings ahead, dissecting strategy for next week’s hearing. The days have been flying by. All I do is work, sleep, and repeat. Midtown lunch spots are always a mistake. Too loud, too crowded, too many lawyers from competing firms who might overhear something useful.
But Isla insisted, and saying no to her is like trying to redirect a hurricane with a paper fan. But I missed her. Isla’s my only friend and even staying connected has become a challenge lately. Even though I need her so much. Whenever we skip our weekly catch-up, it feels like a decade has passed since I last saw her.
I’m perfectly content without the buzz of a crowd around us.
I know I’m her go-to as well; her rock. We’ve been thick as thieves since our college days, and honestly, it feels like she’s more than just a friend—she’s practically family. Sure, we’re polar opposites in many ways, but our shared interests weave us together like a well-crafted tapestry. It’s uncanny how we oftenfinish each other’s sentences. I think we’re part of a hive mind of some sort.
