She’s wearing a coral-coloured dress that makes her look both rich and whimsical.Her arm is tucked neatly around his, her face tilted towards his shoulder, auburn curls swaying in the slight breeze.She says something to Luke.He laughs again.
That’s what does it.
That laugh.
It’s the exact smile I’ve only seen once before – when we were riding horses, and he looked at me as if I was the sun and moon rolled into one.
That smile doesn’t belong to me anymore.Maybe it never did.My throat burns.My vision goes watery.I blink hard.Then again.
Maybe if I blink enough times, the scene will change.Maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut, this version of reality will let me go.
It doesn’t.
I down the rest of my gin and tonic, hoping it might dull the ache in my chest.
It doesn’t.
Suddenly, everything makes sense.Of course this plan was never going to work.That’s the trick, isn’t it?You let yourself believe in something long enough to feel it, and then it slips through your fingers because it was never yours to begin with.
I’ve been telling versions of the truth my whole life – trimming the edges, softening the tone.Smile here.Deflect there.Make it look good.Make it sound casual.But it’s all a cover.A lie stitched together from other people’s expectations.You can’t get hurt if no one ever really knows you.
Love?Relationships?They’re stories we tell ourselves to make the loneliness not feel so permanent.Regardless of the reason, they all end the same way every time – one person leaves, and the other is left to pick up the pieces.
I used to think if I could get it right – be enough, say the right thing, hold back the messy parts of myself – it would work, and I wouldn’t get hurt.But maybe there is no ‘right’.Maybe the whole thing is built to collapse no matter what you say.
Luke saw too much.
That’s the truth I can’t say out loud.
He saw the squishy, messy parts I’ve spent years learning to hide, and it scared the shit out of me.It was terrifying.Because ifsomeone sees all of you and still moves on – then there’s nowhere left to hide.
I get up.Quietly.No dramatics.I don’t look towards the garden again.
I walk out of the bar, past the smiling strangers, past the bell of champagne glasses clinking, past the floral arrangements and framed seating charts and wedding signage with curly fonts that all scream,This day is not yours.
I keep walking.
What else is there to do?
THIRTY-SIX
The ice cream is melting on my stomach.A sticky ring of melted salted caramel is slowly seeping through the bottom of the cardboard container and into my shirt, but I can’t bring myself to care.Mostly because the shirt is stained anyway, but also because I think I’ve finally crossed into a plane of existence where physical discomfort is just background noise.
I’m sprawled on my couch in a pair of decade-old pyjama pants with a waistband that gave up on me three years ago, watchingBelow Deckreruns as if it’s my full-time job.Captain Sandy is ripping a deckhand a new one, blowing up because they forgot to secure a tender line.
It’s the exact right kind of drama I need – loud, overblown and mercifully not mine.
I’m vaguely aware of the sound of my phone buzzing on the armrest beside me.Once.Twice.
I don’t move.The third buzz is longer.A call.
I don’t want to talk to anyone.Especially not Abbey.
Which of course means itisAbbey.
I stare at the screen for a second too long.Then I pick up, because apparently I’m polite even at rock bottom.
‘Hey,’ I say, voice thick, flat – the kind of tone that sounds like it’s coming from beneath the floorboards.
