Page 86 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
I glance at it, then at the little box on the floor—her favorite takeout, and a tiny vase with three daffodils I picked up on impulse. Her favorite flower.
My heart’s hammering, but in the good way—the adrenaline buzz that’s carried me through this plan since we started talking about it. Me, Jake, and Liam. A real place. A home. A future.
Tonight is supposed to be the first step.
I climb out of the car, swipe my hands on my jeans, and head to her front porch. The wood creaks under my feet. I lift a hand to knock, but the door swings open before I get the chance.
And immediately, I know.
She’s not okay.
Maya’s standing there barefoot, swallowed up in my gray hoodie. It hangs off her small frame, the sleeves bunched around her hands.
Her hair’s twisted up in one of those I-don’t-care knots, and her face—God. Her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed like she’s cried until she couldn’t anymore, and her skin’s pale beneath the porch light.
“Maya,” I say, quiet, careful. “What’s going on?”
She tries. I see it—the automatic lift of her chin, the tug of her mouth toward a smile, but it doesn’t make it. She blinks too fast and wraps her arms around herself, sleeves covering her fingers.
“Nothing,” she says. “I’m fine.”
I exhale slowly and feel the weight of the wine bottle in my hand like it suddenly doesn’t belong. Her words are brittle. A lie so thin I could shatter it just by looking too hard.
Still, I give her the out. “I was hoping we could have dinner tonight. Just us.”
Her lips part like she’s about to say no. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her eyes flick to mine for the briefest second before sliding away again.
Then, “Okay.”
I step forward instinctively.
“Hey,” I say, softer now. “We don’t have to. If you need space, or—”
“No,” she says quickly. Then again, quieter. “No, I… dinner’s good.”
I study her. The small tremble in her fingers. The flush in her cheeks that’s not from the cold. The way she keeps blinking like she’s trying to stop herself from unraveling right here on the porch.
“I’ll pick you up at seven?” I offer gently.
She nods again. Doesn’t meet my eyes. Just steps back inside and—without another word—closes the door between us.
It clicks softly shut. The porch light hums. And I just stand there, staring at the grain of the wooden door as it blurs a little in my vision.
Something’s wrong.
The sky’s turned a dusky lavender, streaked with the last warm gold of daylight. The porch light glows behind me.
My breath clouds faintly in the air—it’s the kind of evening that can’t decide if it’s still summer or trying to dip into early fall chill.
I make it down the steps but not all the way to my car before I pull out my phone to call Jake.
He picks up on the second ring, voice bright and teasing like he’s halfway through a joke. “What, you already got cold feet about your romantic solo invite? Should’ve gone with the pasta place. Everyone loves carbs—”
“She’s not okay.” My voice cuts through the banter, sharper than I intend, but I don’t take it back. “Something’s wrong.”
There’s a pause. One breath. Maybe two. Then the humor drops out of Jake’s voice completely.
“Wait—what happened?”
