Page 83 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
“She shouldn’t have to,” Ethan says.
I nod. “It’s time we show up the way she does.”
Ethan leans forward again, more focused now. “Okay. So we make a list. Figure out what we need. Whatsheneeds. Location, size, layout.”
“With a big yard,” Liam says. “And an office. Doesn’t have to be fancy, just hers.”
“And sunlight,” I add. “She loves when the morning light hits just right. You’ve seen her in the kitchen with her tea when it streams in? That’s where she’s happiest.”
They both smile at that.
The room goes quiet again—but this time, it’s not hesitation. It’spurpose.
Something’s shifted.
This is it. The moment we stopreactingand startbuilding.
We started this whole thing like a spark to gasoline—fast, messy, intense.
But this is something else. This is the slow burn. The roots digging deep.
Maya’s been holding the weight of all this, thinking she has to stay small so we don’t feel overwhelmed. Thinking if she reaches too far, it’ll all come apart.
But we’re not fragile.
We’re ready.
All in. Now it’s time to show her. With walls and windows and space carved out just for us. With a future that lives past midnight kisses and whispered promises. With a home.
Hers.
Ours.
Real.
Chapter thirty-four
MAYA
I’m barely touching my salad.
We’re seated at one of the patio tables outside The Juniper Café, a little corner bistro tucked away on a quiet side-street. The lunch crowd is thinning out, the hum of conversation softening around us.
The sun filters through the striped awning overhead, casting warm slants of light across the table and onto my mostly untouched plate. The iced tea beside me has started to sweat, condensation pooling around the base, untouched.
Danielle’s halfway through her sandwich—grilled chicken on sourdough, no tomato, extra pesto. As she eats, she watches me with an unnervingly perceptive stare. We’ve talked about her wedding, her honeymoon, and how married life is treating her,but now the conversation has stalled and that stare sees right through my carefully pasted-on smile.
“You okay?” she asks, casually setting her fork down and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve been weirdly quiet since we sat down. And you’ve picked all the cucumber out of your salad, which, by the way, is a crime.”
I try to laugh. It comes out dry and papery, not even close to convincing. “I’m fine. Just… tired, I guess.”
Her eyes narrow, not in judgment, but in that slow, calm way of someone putting the puzzle pieces together. “You don’t look fine.”
I shrug, forcing my fork to stab at a cherry tomato that somehow looks too round, too red. “It’s been a crazy few weeks.”
Danielle leans forward slightly, arms resting on the table, her voice quieter now, softer. “Maya.”
That’s all it takes.
