Page 3 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
“You made it,” she breathes.
“Of course,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
She pulls back, her eyes scanning me. Though she can come off as a bit of the stereotypical airhead blonde, she’s actually got a rather shrewd eye for aesthetics. A good quality for a social media manager and influencer to have.
“You look amazing,” she says. “Seriously. That color on you? Perfect.”
“Thanks. It’s ‘emotionally stable merlot,’” I deadpan, gesturing to my dress. “Pairs well with bad decisions.”
Danielle laughs, takes my hand, and leads me to the table. We sit and she gazes at me for a moment before her blue eyes flash with uncertainty.
“Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me. I know it might be a little—”
“Complicated?” I finish, lifting a brow.
Her smile falters for a second. “I was going to saydelicate.”
“Don’t worry.” I try to sound as reassuring as possible. “Nick and I are ancient history. I promise, there won’t be any awkwardness between us.”
It sounds good. Crisp. Cool. Believable, even. The kind of thing you say when you’ve moved on and don’t harbor feelings of bitterness and resentment.
Danielle exhales, visibly relieved. “Good. I… didn’t want it to be weird.”
“Not weird at all,” I say brightly. And I almost believe it.
But then, over her shoulder, I see him again.
Nick.
Leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of what I assume is bourbon. His jaw is still tight, the muscle flickering like a warning. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
He looks like he’s trying to decide whether to walk away or walk over. Like I’m not a person, but a problem he has to figure out a solution for.
And just like that, the old ache flickers to life.
The lies he told me. The way he twisted my words in that last fight. The silence that followed.
We never had a clean break—just this slow unraveling, where love turned into something sharp and mean.
Seeing him now? It’s like the bruise I thought had faded is suddenly screaming again. And I don’t know if I’m lying anymore.
I don’t feel like a woman in control.
I feel like a grenade someone handed to the wrong person. And I can feel the pin slipping loose.
This weekend is already a disaster—and it hasn’t even started.
Chapter two
LIAM
Nick’s pacing again.
That’s the third full lap around the couch and coffee table in his sister’s house. Fourth, if you count the frantic spiral he made after spilling his old-fashioned and cursing the “cosmic irony” of it all.
He’s wearing a deep groove into the rug.
Ethan’s perched on the edge of the couch with a bottle of beer, watching Nick like he’s a quarterback about to throw a Hail Mary into a burning dumpster. It’s the same expression he wore when our fantasy football draft went sideways and someone picked three tight ends in the first four rounds—equal parts confusion, dread, and morbid curiosity.
