The pub felt too loud. Too bright. Too much.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to go home. I wanted to rewind the last ten minutes and never turn around when I heard her voice.
“Hey,” Fitz said quietly. “Are you okay?”
I wasn’t. I was the opposite of okay, but I nodded anyway, because what else was I supposed to do?
“That was her,” I said. “The friend who got the job.”
“She seems like a piece of work,” Quinton said.
“She’s successful. She’s talented. She’s everything I was supposed to be.”
“She’s also kind of an arsehole,” Fitz said bluntly.
That startled a laugh out of me. A wet, slightly hysterical laugh, but a laugh, nonetheless.
“Yeah,” I said. “She really is.”
I looked down at my burger—the perfect, beautiful burger that I’d been enjoying five minutes ago. Now it just looked like food. Meaningless. Cold.
My good mood was gone.
The fun afternoon was over, and I was back to being exactly what I’d been trying to escape: a failed chef working as a nanny, watching everyone else live the life I’d wanted.
“I think I need to go,” I said quietly.
“We’ll walk you to the station,” Quinton said immediately.
“You don’t have to—”
“We’re walking you to the station,” Fitz said firmly. “Come on.”
They paid the bill—refusing to let me contribute—and walked me through the Boston streets toward South Station. Neither of them tried to make conversation, which I appreciated. They just... walked with me. Present. Supportive.
Like friends.
At the station entrance, Fitz pulled me into a quick hug. “For what it’s worth, Gabriel’s lucky to have you.”
“As a nanny,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “As a nanny.”
Quinton hugged me too. “Don’t let her get to you. You’re doing great.”
I wasn’t.
But it was nice of him to say.
I rode the train back to Connecticut in a daze, watching the city disappear behind me, and tried not to think about Tracy’s face. Her success. Her perfect life in my perfect restaurant. I tried not to think about how I’d ended up here—a nanny in Connecticut, cooking chicken nuggets instead of chicken piccata, living someone else’s life instead of my own.
I tried not to think about how much it hurt,
By the time I got home, I was exhausted. Emotionally wrung out. Ready to crawl into bed and not emerge until Monday.
My phone buzzed.
Fitz:Had fun today. Sorry about your friend. She’s definitely an arsehole.
