“Jules,” I call, “turn it up. I’m really into country music these days.”
Glancing up, I smile. A smile that cuts. His gaze goes lethal, knowing exactly what I mean. That stupid fire pit conversation about music and connection, way back when this whole mess began. I turn back to the table, breathing through the searing cocktail of jealousy simmering in my chest.
“Syd, where’d you learn to play like that?” Mason cuts through it all.
They are all watching, tracking our every step. Mason and Ivy observe with sharp awareness while Jules and Tom play amused spectators. I hope they’re only seeing the pool.
“High school” is all he gets and I sink my next shot.
James plays with a quiet intensity, every movement intentional. It suits him. A game of patience. Control.
But neither of us speaks, as though last year's pain has left us unable to bridge into even pretend friendship. The air hums with everything. The words he gave me, the ones I didn’t return, are now wrapped in a proposal to another woman. But there's no quick victory. Just two people who won't let go, each move stretching out what neither wants to finish—missing shots, sinking scratch after scratch. Anything to keep the closeness alive, even if it’s cloaked in silence.
When we’re down to the last two balls, we stand side by side. Close enough that I feel his heat, and hear the slow rise and fall of his breath. I line up my shot, hands steady, heart not.
“Don’t miss, Sydney.” He draws out my name the way he always does. Testing me. Waiting for a spark of something. A flash of gold in my eyes.
My body responds instantly, but I don’t let it show.
The ball sinks into the pocket with a clean, final sound. And because I can, because I want to—I drop into a slow, mocking curtsey.
A queen, claiming her victory.
I walk away, not bothering to meet his eyes again. Triumph in every step. When I reach my husband, I slide my hand around his waist and press a kiss to his neck. Lingering. Calculated. His fingers skim the back of my thigh, tracing circles under my skirt.
A soft whimper escapes me.
A sharp crack follows.
The room goes still.
James stands rigid, staring at the broken bottle at his feet.
Ivy startles, her ring catching the light as her hand flies to her chest. Her eyes are wide with surprise. If she questions what happened, she doesn’t let it show. “Be careful, babe! Need help cleaning it up?”
Crouching to gather the shards, he mumbles an excuse and disappears up the stairs. As his footsteps recede, petty satisfaction curls through me. I smirk, ruthless and unrepentant. Let him carry the same gut-wrenching ache that’s been eating me alive since I walked into the house and saw that ring on her finger.
“Wow, this floor is hard. We should warn Mom and Dad that a bottle slipping out of someone’s hand can break,” Jules laughs, her eyes cutting to mine. “Maybe they can add some area rugs.”
Tom chuckles before saying, “Totally. I think a blue one would look nice.”
I step out of Mason’s reach and sip my drink. His eyes move from me to the spot where the bottle hit the floor. His smile falters, and he rubs a hand along his jaw, analyzing me in a way that feels uncomfortable. I take another sip.
“So, Ivy,” Jules says, yanking the spotlight back. “I don’t think everyone heard the full story. James proposed completely out of the blue this morning, as you were about to drive up here?”
Her glance at me is sharp, warning me not to leave.
“Yeah!” Ivy beams, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “We’d talked about it, casually. But when I stopped by his condo this morning, he was standing outside with the ring. He didn’t even say anything. Just handed me the box like… like it didn’t need words. Like we were already on the same page.” She laughs, dreamily. “It was totally swoon-worthy.”
Jules tilts her head, lips twitching. “Totally swoon-worthy.”
Ivy doesn’t hear it. She’s already diving into wedding talk, rattling off plans lost in the fantasy.
He proposed this morning? Standing outside his condo with a ring?
My mind spins, trying to reconcile this story with the man I know. The man who remembers my coffee order. Who finds the perfect books. Who holds my baby with complete focus. That man doesn’t do things without thought. Or feeling.
This wasn’t a grand gesture. It was a calculated decision. A shield. A line drawn in the sand by someone trying to prove something or protect himself.
