Page 12 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
I sip my drink. “Pretending’s your specialty, isn’t it?”
That lands harder than I mean it to—but I don’t take it back. His jaw ticks.
“You look different,” he says finally, eyes flicking down my dress, pausing at my neckline long enough to piss me off.
“So do you,” I reply flatly. “Older. Angrier. Still trying too hard.”
His mouth twists. “Still got that bite, huh?”
“And you still think it’s flattering to pick a fight in the middle of a wedding brunch?”
He lowers his voice, but his tone sharpens. “I’m not trying to fight. I just—didn’t expect to feel like a ghost in the room where you’re standing.”
My laugh is dry and cold. “You’re not a ghost, Nick. You’re a past I don’t feel like revisiting.”
For a second, he doesn’t respond. Just looks at me like I’m something he used to own but can’t quite figure out how he lost.
“You know, I spent a long time thinking you’d come back.”
“I spent a long time convincing myself I wouldn’t.”
That hits. I watch him blink once, slow. The kind of blink that tries to hide how much it stings.
“I’m not here to stir anything up,” he says, a little too tightly. “I came to support Danielle. Not to—”
“Not to what?” I cut in, eyes locking with his. “Not to corner me and ask loaded questions? Not to remind me how many good years we faked?”
The space between us hums like a pulled wire. One more word, and something’s going to snap.
He shakes his head, voice low. “You always rewrite the ending to make yourself the hero.”
“And you always want the last word.” I lean in slightly, smiling enough to make it hurt. “But here’s the truth, Nick—you don’t get to decide who I am anymore.”
A long, brittle pause. Then he lets out a breath, a laugh that doesn’t even try to sound genuine.
“Enjoy your drink, Maya.”
“Enjoy the mirror,” I say, turning back to my mimosa. “I hear it’s still your favorite conversation partner.”
This time, I don’t watch him go. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I take a slow breath, let the noise of the party settle around me again. The clink of glassware. Laughter that doesn’t belong to me. My pulse still tapping out a rhythm I don’t love.
Then—like the universe deciding I’ve had enough drama for one morning—I hear a voice that steadies me.
“Hey, stranger.”
Liam.
I hadn’t noticed him standing near the entry to the patio, half-shadowed by ivy-covered columns and soft amber string lights.He’s nursing a drink, posture relaxed but alert, like he’s quietly taking notes on everyone in the room without needing a pen. He’s tall and calm in a steady, centered kind of way.
Liam Walsh is the kind of man you notice twice.
The first time, it’s all surface—broad shoulders, firefighter build, that ever-present five o’clock shadow that somehow makes him look both rugged and unfairly handsome. Gray eyes that miss nothing. Sandy brown hair messy enough to look effortless. He moves like someone who knows his own strength but doesn’t throw it around.
The second time you notice him? That’s when it gets dangerous.
Under all that stoic calm and Greek-statue muscle is a man who hums when he’s concentrating, who gets irrationally passionate about baking shows, who carries a pocketknife like he was born to fix what’s broken.
