Page 55 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
She stares at me for a second, a flicker of something wild and real passing through her eyes. Then she straightens her dress, smooths her hair with a deep breath, and nods.
We walk back up the path together, side by side, our hands brushing, though I’m fighting the urge to tangle our fingers together as we walk back into the party.
Chapter twenty-two
JAKE
An hour into the rehearsal dinner, I can’t find Maya so I go looking for her. I haven’t actually seen her since she came back inside the venue with Ethan after the incident with Nick, and I’m a little worried. I find her outside the back entrance, half-hidden behind one of the stone columns that lines the patio. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself.
She doesn’t see me at first.
Her head is tilted back against the cool stone, eyes closed, breathing in slow, measured pulls. I know that look. I’ve worn it too many times myself.
“Maya,” I say gently.
Her eyes snap open. For a second, she looks startled. Then she sees me, and her shoulders fall like she’s been holding a breath for hours and finally let it go.
“Hey,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Hey.” I take a step closer, careful not to crowd her. “You okay?”
She gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
I arch a brow, silent.
She huffs a laugh, short and dry. “I swear, I’m going to start charging people every time they ask me that tonight.”
“I’d pay,” I murmur, and offer my arm. “Come walk with me.”
For a moment, I think she’ll say no, but then she exhales and threads her arm through mine. Her fingers graze my sleeve, lingering, and together we start down the gravel path that leads into the garden.
The noise of the rehearsal dinner fades behind us—clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, the faint hum of music swallowed by the night.
Out here, it’s quiet. Just the chirping of crickets, the whisper of the breeze through the trees, and the soft crunch of our steps on the path.
For a while, we don’t say anything.
Just walk.
We reach the edge of the garden, near the old trellis that’s half-covered in ivy and moonlight. A few fairy lights still glow along the fence, forgotten but stubbornly clinging to their purpose.
She stops, arms folding across her chest again.
“Nick was drunk,” she says suddenly. “And loud. And awful. And somehow still smug.”
“I noticed,” I say quietly.
She exhales a sharp breath through her nose. “Sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to apologize for him.”
“I know,” she says, but her voice is small. Tired. “It’s just… exhausting, you know? Always having to be the one who keeps it together. Even when people like him make it impossible.”
I turn to her, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek. “I know Nick can be a lot, but I’m sure he’ll be fine again once we get through this weekend. Emotions are high.”
Her eyes meet mine, and they’re shining in the low light. Not with tears—not yet—but with something raw. Unguarded.
Like for once, she’s not holding everything so tightly inside.
