"The one you were staring at like it held all the answers. Buy it." He finishes his scotch. "Because either you trust her enough to risk everything, or you don't trust her at all. And that ring scared you more than any blog post."
"That's..." Surprisingly insightful for someone who once tried to code his way out of a breakup.
"He's right." Grayson signals for another round. "Though my AI could definitely help with the exact stone specifications?—"
"No dating app analysis!" Connor and I chorus.
But later, after we've finished shopping (and several more scotches), I find myself back at Cartier. The emerald ring sits in its case like a question.
Or maybe an answer I'm not ready to hear.
My phone buzzes with another news alert: Mac's post is trending. Words like "wolf" and "Versace" blur together, postedless than a day after she'd sat in my kitchen, avoiding questions about information sources.
I buy the ring anyway.
Because Connor's right – either I trust her enough to risk everything, or I don't trust her at all.
I just wish I knew which one was scarier.
25
THE ART OF RUNNING
MACKENZIE
The thing about hiding from your feelings in a family restaurant during holiday lunch rush is that there's never just one crisis to manage. Right now, I'm:
1. Dodging texts from Alex about my brutal blog post
2. Trying to finish an exposé that could destroy his company
3. Attempting to work from an increasingly crowded host stand
4. Watching my Instagram feed fill with my twenty-eight-year-old replacement's baby shower updates
5. All while a party of twelve needs their fourth round of bread sticks
"Table six needs more wine," Lucia announces as she squeezes past me. "Also, that's the fifth time you've checked your phone in ten minutes."
"I'm monitoring news alerts," I lie, though really I'm watching Katie's Instagram Story about her "Winter Wonderland Baby Shower Planning!!!" complete with multiple exclamation points and an energy level that makes my forty-two-year-old bones ache just watching.
"You're hiding," Lucia corrects, deftly managing a tray of drinks while eyeing my laptop screen. "Also, you have marinara on your keyboard."
A young couple at table four gets engaged, the woman's delighted squeal mixing with the lunch rush chaos. Her ring catches the light, reminding me of the way Alex looked at me last night when I was actively avoiding his questions about the blog.
My phone buzzes with another baby shower update: Katie's boomerang of herself touring potential shower venues, somehow looking fresh and excited after visiting six places before noon.
At her age, I was closing million-dollar tech deals. Now I'm hiding from both my past and present while eating my weight in processed carbs.
"The Anderson party needs their check," Sofia appears with another wave of orders. "And you need to stop watching Katie's Stories. Her bubbly bullshit isn't contagious."
"I'm not?—"
A notification interrupts: Katie's added me to a baby shower planning group chat. Twenty-three messages immediately pop up, most containing the words "first time" and "so exciting!!!"
"Dr. Miller's usual table is ready," Lucia calls out, masterfully redirecting a server with a precarious tray of pasta. "And Alex called again. That's four times since your blog post. Might be a record for someone you're supposedly not avoiding."
I minimize Katie's chat, but another notification in the group chat immediately pops up – this time from Roberto's mother: