Page 103 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
The breeze kicks up, rustling through the leaves of the sycamore trees lining the sidewalk. A passing car thumps with bass-heavy music that fades into the distance.
Somewhere nearby, someone laughs—sharp, quick, unaware of the moment cracking open between us.
Nick blinks like I’ve just started speaking a language he doesn’t understand. Like none of this computes.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“So, yeah,” I continue, my voice dipping lower, trembling now not with fear but with the force of what I’m saying, “whatever you think you had with her, it’s over. You lost her when you stopped seeing who she really was.”
I step closer. “We see her. Every messy, brilliant, complicated piece, and she’s happy with us.”
He flinches—not dramatically, just a small jerk of his jaw as he looks away. His shoulders tense like he’s bracing for a hit that already landed. I don’t know if it’s my words or his own conscience doing the damage.
He stares down at the sidewalk like it might give him answers. Then he mutters, “You can’t tell me that’s gonna last. That kind of thing—what, some twisted poly situation?”
His lip curls like the word itself leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “You think that’s sustainable?”
I stare at him. The rage behind his words is loud, but underneath it, I can hear the cracks. The fear. The hurt.
“I don’tthinkit,” I say, firm now. “Iknowit.”
I let the silence stretch between us, weighty and unmoving.
“We talk,” I go on. “We don’t force her into a box or ask her to change. We listen. We fight fair. We choose her, every single day, and she chooses us right back.”
Nick’s face contorts, something tight flickering behind his eyes. He wants to argue. I can see it—his fists flex at his sides, his chest rising fast beneath his jacket.
But he doesn’t. Maybe because he knows he’ll lose. Maybe because a part of him realizes he already has.
He just stands there, shoulders heaving, trying to gather something sharp enough to throw back at me. But the well’s empty. There’s nothing left.
So I take a breath. A deep one this time. Let the weight of the moment settle around us like dust.
Then, quieter: “Go home, Nick. Let her go.”
I turn before he can speak. I don’t need to hear whatever last jab he might try to throw. He’s behind me now—in every sense of the word.
The walk back to the car feels shorter than I remember, though my legs are still buzzing with adrenaline. My pulse hammers in my ears like a leftover drumbeat, and my hands tremble slightly as I pull out my keys.
I grip the steering wheel for a second after unlocking the door and climbing inside. Riding out the wave of emotions I’m feeling. Letting it pass.
Underneath the shakes, I feel lighter. Like I finally dropped a weight I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Maya:Did you buy the werewolf book?? Also… baby wants a cinnamon roll. So do I.
A laugh escapes me—sudden and sharp and warm all at once. I sag back against the driver’s seat, the absurdity and sweetness of the message wrapping around me like a blanket.
I smile, thumbing out a reply with fingers that don’t shake quite as much now.
Liam:On my way. Don’t move. I’ve got both.
I toss the phone into the passenger seat, start the car, and ease out of the parking lot. The sun is lower now, slanting gold across the windshield, catching on the cracked spines of the paperbacks on the seat beside me.
***
The scent of sugar and cinnamon fills the car, warm and heady even through the closed lid of the bakery box on the passengerseat. It blends with the paper-and-ink musk of the bookstore bag beside it, the two smells oddly comforting in their contrast.
