Page 78 of The Book Club Boyfriend
More laughter. More wine.
And then suddenly we’re all just talking. About relationships. About expectations. About how hard it is to hold onto yourself when your life gets tied to someone else’s schedule, career, or spotlight.
“You’re kind of living the dream,” one woman says. “Like, don’t get me wrong, I love my guy. But the freedom? The peace of not dealing with dirtysocks on the floor? Don’t let anyone make you give that up.”
“Seriously,” another chimes in. “The independence thing? That’s hot. Don’t let some guy make you think you have to soften it.”
I take a sip of my wine, feeling oddly warm—not just from the alcohol, but from the unexpected camaraderie.
“I won’t,” I say, smiling faintly. “Trust me. I’ve worked too hard to get here.”
Lucy clinks her glass to mine. “Damn right you have.”
We settle into the couch, laughter echoing around the room, the soft hum of a playlist underscoring the conversations. And for once, I don’t feel like the odd woman out. I feel… understood.
It’s disarming.
I’m having more fun than I expected. I thought these women might be stuck up or worse—judgmental. But they’re neither.
And they’re sharing all the tea about what it’s like to have a hockey husband. Possible ammo to hang over Chase’s head someday…
I’m here for it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Gut Punch
Scarlett
I’m halfway through my workout, earbuds in, trying to drown out the internet noise with a podcast about finding peace in chaos—which is ironic, considering I am the chaos at the moment.
The gym is surprisingly empty at this time of morning, and I’m already fifteen minutes in, according to the treadmill, whichshouldfeel like a great start. But I’m still spiraling. When I need grounding, I do what any self-respecting masochist would
do: I open Instagram.
Harper always says I’m asking for it. And she’s right.
I scroll aimlessly for a minute, pausing on a few dog videos, liking a new release announcement from one of my author friends, and then—
Iseehisname.
A smiling couple. Champagne flutes raised. A golden hour photo filtered within an inch of its life. The woman is pretty in that Pinterest board way—flowy hair, pastel dress, the kind of effortless that takes three hours and a glam team.
And him.
My ex.
The one I loved so hard I nearly lost myself.
The one who told me I was selfish for choosing my career.
The one who made me feel like I’d never be enough.
Now? He’s smiling for the camera, arm wrapped around someone new, and the caption reads:
“Engaged to my best friend. May can’t come fast enough.”
My breath catches.
