Page 28 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
Chapter eleven
MAYA
By the time we wrap up the eleventh crisis of the day—something about a missing boutonnière and a cake decorator having a meltdown over fondant—I’m ready to crawl into bed and pretend this wedding doesn’t exist for at least 48 hours.
My feet ache. My phone is at 6%, mostly from Danielle’s texts. My brain feels like it’s been wrung out like a dish towel and left on a windowsill to dry.
But then my phone buzzes with a text from Jake.
We’re stealing you for drinks. No excuses. Wear something cute.
I stare at the screen for a long moment. I almost say no. God, I want to say no. I want a shower, stretchy pants, and to loseconsciousness in front of a rewatch ofThe Great British Bake-Off.
But something about that message catches me. Maybe it’s the “we” or the “no excuses,” like they already knew I’d hesitate. Like I’m not just invited—I’m expected. Like I belong.
So I go.
They take me to a rooftop bar tucked above a little independent bookstore, hidden behind a wrought-iron gate and up three narrow flights of stairs. It’s one of those places you only know about if you’ve lived in the city long enough—cozy, unpolished, and inexplicably magical.
The sun’s setting, the sky dripping in lavender and gold, the kind of color that makes you believe in soft endings and new beginnings. String lights stretch between exposed beams. The tables are mismatched, the chairs look like they were stolen from a dozen different patios, and the bartender wears suspenders unironically.
The music drifting from the speakers is slow and jazzy—Ella Fitzgerald, maybe—and it wraps around everything like silk. There’s laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the murmur of other conversations. No pressure. No expectations.
For the first time in days, I can breathe.
I drift toward the edge of the rooftop, pulled to the view like it’s magnetic. The city stretches out below me, a hub of activity even at this time of day, but up here it feels quiet. Still.
“Thought you might need this.”
I glance over, and there’s Liam with two bourbons in hand. I take a glass and give him a grateful smile.
“You thought right,” I say.
We lean against the railing together. Our arms don’t quite touch, but the space between us feels charged—like a live wire humming just beneath the surface.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, steady—the kind of steady you lean on without realizing.
I exhale slowly. “No,” I admit. “But I’m trying.”
He nods. No probing. No platitudes. Just quiet understanding. It’s disarming.
“It’s a lot,” I continue. “Trying to make everything perfect. For Danielle. For her parents. For people who don’t even notice if the candles are ivory or cream.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” he says simply. “But you don’t have to carry it all alone.”
I glance at him, and he’s already looking at me. Not in a way that makes me feel exposed, but like he sees the parts I usually keep hidden and doesn’t flinch. His gaze is calm. Solid. Like a dock in a storm.
“I’m used to carrying things,” I say quietly. “Expectations. Guilt. Pressure. It’s sort of my thing.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, his hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my cheek, slow and featherlight, and for a moment I forget how to breathe.
“You don’t have to carry everything on your own,” he says, the words firm. “Not when I’m here.”
Not a question. Not a plea. Just a simple fact.
I lean into him enough to feel the shape of his shoulder against mine. Just enough to let myself feel… not alone.
The scent of him—soap, leather, something faintly smoky—wraps around me, calming and dizzying all at once. I want to stay here. Let myself lean into him a little more.
