Page 126 of Bleacher Report
Then I see it.
His body goes still. His shoulders lock.
The shift in the air is instant.
And then I hear her voice.
“Hunter,” she says sweetly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
I freeze.
My stomach drops.
Bethany.
From the couch, I can’t see her, but I hear everything. The soft clack of expensive heels crossing the threshold. The pointed tone in her voice that doesn’t quite match the fake smile I know she’s wearing.
Carly gasps softly. “Beth! What are you doing here, honey?”
“I was just in the neighborhood,” Bethany says, breezing into the living room like she owns it. “Thought I’d stop by with a few gifts. I didn’t have anything better to do today.”
Of course not.
She’s dressed like she’s heading to brunch at the Four Seasons—an expensive dress, long peacoat with a fur collar, clinging to every curve, and high heeled boots too high for snow, and more makeup than anyone should be wearing at this hour on Christmas morning. She places a perfectly arranged bouquet inCarly’s hands and sets two gifts on the table like she's Santa with a blowout.
One for Carly.
One for Hunter.
My eyes lock on that second box.
Bethany glances at me for the first time, a barely-there smirk tugging at her red-painted lips. Her gaze lingers—calculating, amused, like I’m the entertainment and she already knows the ending.
I keep my smile polite and sip my tea. Barely.
Hunter doesn’t move to take the gift.
“Come on,” she says, stepping closer. “Don’t be rude. It’s Christmas.”
Carly shoots him a look—the gentle mom kind that’s half warning, half plea.
Reluctantly, he takes it and peels off the wrapping. Inside is a silver picture frame, glossy and delicate. A photo sits behind the glass.
I lean forward instinctively, just as Hunter stiffens.
The picture is of them—Bethany and Hunter—on ice skates at the same rink he took me to yesterday. Both their cheeks flushed, her hands in his. They look…young. Happy.
A tiny tremor slides through me.
It’s subtle. Barely a crack. But it’s there.
And Bethany sees it.
Because she watches me as I look at the photo—her eyes gleaming with something dark and smug. She doesn’t need to say anything. The message is clear.
I was here first.
My throat goes tight, but I swallow it down.
