Page 80 of The Girlfriend Goal
"He's not," I said quickly. Too quickly.
Samantha's expression softened. "The offer stands. Some of us remember what he did to you. We've got your back."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The solidarity should’ve helped, but it only highlighted how isolated I'd made myself.
That evening, Jared attempted another intervention. He'd prepared what he called a "romantic comedy emergency kit" – popcorn, wine, and a carefully curated selection of films featuring strong women who didn't let toxic exes ruin their happiness.
"This is ridiculous," I said, but I accepted the wine glass he thrust at me.
"What's ridiculous is you channeling your inner Emily Dickinson when you have a perfectly good hockey specimen waiting to worship at your athletic feet." He started10 Things I Hate About You. "Now, watch and learn how to properly handle an ex while maintaining your current romantic trajectory."
"Lance and I aren't romantic. We're just exploring physical chemistry."
Jared paused the movie before it even started. "Sweetie, the lies you tell yourself are less believable than my claim that this wine is from France and not the corner bodega."
My phone buzzed again. Lance:Marcus ran away from home. He's at the community center. I know things are weird between us but he needs both of us. Please.
I was out the door before Jared could even pause the movie.
The community center felt eerily quiet at night. I found Marcus huddled in the equipment room, knees drawn to his chest, face streaked with tears. Lance sat beside him, maintaining respectful distance while keeping vigilant watch.
Our eyes met across the small space, and a thousand unspoken words passed between us. His expression held hurt, confusion, and concern – but not anger. Never anger.
"Hey, Marcus," I said softly, settling on the boy's other side. "Rough night?"
Marcus lifted his head slightly. "You came."
"Of course I came. We're a team, remember?"
"Doesn't feel like it lately," he mumbled. "You two can barely look at each other. Did I do something wrong?"
"No!" Lance and I said simultaneously.
"This isn't about you at all," I continued. "Sometimes adults have complicated feelings that make things difficult."
"Is it because you hate each other now?" Marcus's voice cracked. "Like my mom and dad before he left?"
Lance's sharp intake of breath matched my own. "We don't hate each other," he said firmly. "Right, Rachel?"
"Right." I met his eyes again. "We could never hate each other."
"Then why won't you work together anymore? Why do you schedule different times and barely talk?" Tears spilled down Marcus's cheeks. "Everyone always leaves. I thought you two were different."
The weight of his words crashed over me. In trying to protect myself, I'd hurt not only Lance but also this vulnerable kid who'd come to depend on us.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, pulling Marcus into a hug. "I'm so sorry. We're not leaving, and we're going to do better. I promise."
Lance's hand covered mine where it rested on Marcus's shoulder. The simple touch sent electricity through my entire body.
"Want to tell us what happened at home?" Lance asked gently.
Marcus's story spilled out – a fight with his mom about grades, feeling overwhelmed by school and responsibilities, the pressure of being the man of the house at twelve. We listened, offering comfort and practical solutions, naturally falling back into our partnership rhythm.
By the time Marcus's worried mother arrived, we'd developed a plan. More tutoring support, regular check-ins, and a commitment to consistent mentorship. Watching them reunite, both crying and apologizing, reminded me why this work mattered.
In the empty parking lot afterward, Lance and I stood by our cars, neither moving to leave.
"I'm sorry," I said finally. "For shutting you out again. For being a coward."
