“Ruby.”
The way he says my name, like I’m the one being foolish, sets me off. “Is this an early midlife crisis?” My arms flail. “What we have here, it’s good. Great, actually. A whole lot better than whatever random roller coaster of a future some slime bag in a suit has promised you.”
“Scott doesn’t wear suits. He’s more of a polo kind of guy.”
“Please,” I beg, shifting tactics. “We have a plan. We should stick to it.”
His green eyes soften with compassion, or maybe guilt. “I’m taking the job, Ruby.”
My throat tightens. My vision starts to blur. “So, that’s it? What about me?”
Connor’s face falls. “We’ve been on a hamster wheel. The same thing, over and over again. Don’t you have bigger dreams for yourself? For us?”
My heart nose-dives into my stomach, all my insides sinking into a nauseating free fall. I don’t want something new, and no way will I gamble my future on a bunch of unknowns.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to tell you like this. Here…”
Connor tries to take my hands, but I ball them into fists andlook past him, startled by the sight of Bridget’s blond ponytail swishing through the crowd, Ryan trailing behind her.
I can’t let them see me like this. I can’t ruin the night.
I can’t even breathe.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” I rasp. “I need some air.”
I’m gone before he can protest, the lump in my throat growing unbearably big as I push through the crowd, searching for the exit.
As I weave past strangers, stinging-hot tears trail down my cheeks. I wipe them, struck by yet another horrifying realization: I can’t even cry off the waterproof body glitter.
I glance back to make sure Connor isn’t following me.
He’s not.
But I do feel the itchy awareness of someone’s attention, and as the crowd shifts, I spot him, catching his familiar gray-blue stare from across the bar.
In hindsight, I should’ve taken a tequila shot.
Better yet, two.
2
Sad Spice
The dark alleybehind Curly’s smells like grease and melancholy.
Or maybe that’s just me.Eau de despair.
Summer’s humidity has already faded, the night almost bitingly cool. Labor Day weekend is always a toss-up. Some years, our birthday is hot and muggy. Others, like this one, carry the promise of fall.
I drop onto the cool concrete steps beneath a lit-upBarsign that hangs over the back door. The hum of the crowd filters outside, bursts of laughter swallowed up by loud chatter. With my head in my hands, I let out a long, shaky breath.
Connor and I are done. That’s it. One choice, one short conversation, and although my thoughts are knotted together—a scramble of thwarted plans and follow-up questions—one thing is clear: We no longer want the same life.
As hot rage prickles at my skin, all my fears rearrange into a to-do list. I can’t stay with his dad’s firm, so I’ll need a new job. Anew apartment, too, because I can’t afford our one-bedroom in Lincoln Park on my own.
I can’t believe I’m on my own.
My chest caves in at the thought of our big, white couch, of all things. It’s the first piece of furniture we picked out together after we found our apartment.
