Page 6 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
Jake snorts. “And monogrammed napkins.”
I rise from the chair, already dreading what fresh drama tomorrow’s bridal events might bring. “We need reinforcements. Champagne. Maybe a sedative. And someone needs to make sure Nick doesn’t corner Maya in a hallway with a speech he thinks is cathartic but is actually an emotional hostage situation.”
“Dibs not it,” Jake says.
“Same,” Ethan adds, already cracking open another beer.
I grab my keys and shake my head. “Fine. I’ll handle it.”
Maybe we’ll survive this weekend without things going full scorched-earth.
But looking at the pieces on the board—Nick, Maya, unresolved history and a dangerously flammable bouquet of tension—I’m not betting on it. Especially not with Maya looking at me like I’m more than just Nick’s friend.
And God help me—I want her to.
Chapter three
JAKE
We’re in Danielle’s living room, which honestly looks like it was lifted from a magazine spread called“Minimalism with Money.”White walls. Pale wood floors. Everything beige, but make it bougie. Throw pillows you’re not allowed to lean on. A fake fur rug that probably cost more than my first car.
I relax into one of her armchairs, slightly too stiff for comfort but aesthetically pleasing, of course. My legs are stretched out, socked feet propped on a marble coffee table I’m definitely not supposed to touch. My fingers tap a lazy rhythm against my phone screen
The group chat is blowing up with bridal logistics—who’s arriving when, who’s allergic to shellfish, who has strong feelings about boutonnières—and somewhere between a close-up of peony arrangements and a surprisingly aggressive debate over vanilla bean versus raspberry filling, I scroll past a photo.
And there she is.
Maya.
God, she’s unreal.
She’s standing in the middle of a restaurant, posing with Danielle. Hair twisted into some complicated updo that shows off the line of her neck. Soft makeup, red lipstick, and heels.
It’s unfair, really, the way she can look so serene and effortlessly gorgeous even amidst chaos.
Like gravity bends around her. Like you want to move closer without knowing why.
I’ve always hated that.
She’s got that particular brand of beautiful that feels pointed. The kind that makes you check yourself. Am I standing weird? Is my joke funny? Do I have anything remotely interesting to say?
And sure, I’ve never been tongue-tied around her. I’ve got a full arsenal for this kind of situation: jokes, sarcasm, smug indifference, all loaded and ready.
That doesn’t mean I’m immune, though.
I think maybe the worst part is that Nick’s not wrong. Not completely.
Mayaiscalculating, but not in the way he means.
She’s not manipulative. She’s deliberate. Precise. She knows her worth and doesn’t waste energy pretending she doesn’t. If you can’t keep up, that’s on you, not her.
Nick couldn’t keep up, but that doesn’t mean I should try.
It also doesn’t mean I won’t.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Ethan mutters from the couch without looking up from whatever pretentious indie film he’s halfway ignoring. The volume’s low, background noise under the hum of the central air and the ticking of the designer wall clock.
“Rude,” I shoot back, still scrolling through my phone like I’m not currently spiraling. “Maybe I’m meditating.”
