Page 37 of Whiskey & Wreckage

He takes a sip of coffee, then says casually, “I saw her name again.”

I pretend to care more about my cereal. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

I swirl the spoon like it owes me money.

He watches me for a long second, then sets his mug down. His tone is gentle, but steady.

“You don’t have to see her. But you keep flinching like she’s still got her hand on the grenade.”

I look up sharply. “I’m not scared of her.”

“I didn’t say scared.”

“I’mtired.” My voice is harder than I want it to be. My stomach flips—because hormones, or rage, or both.

He nods. Just once. “Then maybe it’s time. Not for her. For you.”

And I know he’s right. He always is. Not in the smug, “I told you so” way—Thomas is way too emotionally repressed and secretly soft for that. He just sees me. The cracks, the grit, the quiet ache I keep stuffed down behind sarcastic commentary and caffeine.

So I finish my cereal, press my hand to his on my belly, and say, “Fine. One hour. Public place.”

We meet at a park café. Quiet. Neutral. Near a lake with those smug little paddle boats shaped like swans. I choose the table near the window. Easy view. Easy exit. My therapist would be proud.

I sip my chamomile tea and glance at my phone. No texts. I’d almost be surprised if she showed up, but of course she does—ten minutes late, just enough to remind me she still thinks her time matters more than anyone else's.

Lily looks exactly like the version of herself she curated for social media. Effortless curls. Tinted moisturizer. Glossy lips that probably took thirty minutes to look “low maintenance.” She spots me and hesitates, like I’m a ghost she’s not sure she’s ready to see.

I don’t wave. I don’t smile.

I just sit there in my black maternity jeans and soft lavender sweater—the one Thomas keeps saying makes me “dangerously kissable”—and wait.

Her eyes dart to my stomach and then back up quickly. Good. Let her squirm.

“Hey,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me like we’re still sisters who swap dresses and boyfriends.

“Hi.” My voice is calm. Flat. Professional, like I’m conducting a very polite firing.

She fidgets with her phone. I let the silence build like a slow crescendo. I want her uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says finally.

“Neither was I.”

She nods. “I’ve been texting—”

“I noticed.”

Silence. Thick and awkward.

“I just…” she starts, then stops. “I wanted to explain.”

“Why?” I ask, cocking my head. “So I can understand the behind-the-scenes of how you managed to screw my boyfriend in my bed while still using my Netflix login?”

She flinches. Good.

“It wasn’t like that,” she whispers.

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