Two women come toward me from the opposite direction, dressed for the kind of night that starts with cocktails and ends in mistakes. One of them looks up first. Then the other.
I know that look on women. I’ve seen it since I was old enough to understand that a pretty face could be used as currency. Back then, I leaned into it. I let girls look. Let them want. Let them mistake the smirk, the tattoos, and the bad decisions for something interesting rather than what they really were.
It was easy. Smile at the right time. Lower my voice. Let them think they were the only person in the room for a few hours.Make them feel chosen while giving them nothing real enough to hold on to.
It got me blowjobs in bathrooms, sex whenever I wanted, and enough temporary heat to pretend I was not cold anywhere it counted.
Back then, I thought that was power. Now it just feels cheap. A trick performed by a younger version of me who didn’t know the difference between being wanted and being known.
The two women hold my gaze a second longer than necessary. Then one of them smiles.
A few years ago, I would have smiled back. I would have let their smile hook me and drag me wherever it wanted to go, because casual was simple. It didn’t ask questions or stand in front of me with hurt in her eyes and years of damage between us. Casual didn’t know my worst parts by name and still made my chest ache every time she looked at me.
I keep walking. I don’t want easy, a warm body or a forgettable name. All I want is Skylar, which is inconvenient as fuck, considering Skylar has every reason in the world not to want me back.
As they pass me, I hear them giggle. It’s soft, flirty, harmless. The kind of sound that used to make my ego sit up and wag its tail. Now it just makes me shove my hands deeper into my pockets and keep walking.
I turn left at the lights and head down the block.
The street changes a little here. Less glass and office lights. More cracked pavement, older brick, and windows with half-drawn blinds with people’s lives tucked safely behind.
A man in a puffer jacket walks toward me, a tiny dog in a knitted jumper trotting at his feet. The dog has the kind of confidence only something that small can have—chest out, nose up, completely unaware it could be punted into next week by a strong breeze.
The man nods as I pass by. The dog looks me up and down, unimpressed.
I pass a closed florist, a laundromat humming under fluorescent lights, and a takeout place that smells of fried oil and bad life choices.
The closer I get, the slower my steps want to go. Not because I am changing my mind.
Every block behind me takes another excuse with it. Another second to think. Another chance to turn around and pretend I am respecting the space she needs, instead of following Cassie’s text across town like a man with good intentions and shit impulse control.
I wait at the curb for a car to pass before stepping onto the road and crossing to the next block.
Skylar and Cassie’s block.
I drag a hand over my jaw, lift my head, and force air into my lungs before I reach her building.
My shoulders are tight. Every part of me feels braced for impact, which is fucking stupid because I am only walking to an apartment. Only knocking on a door and standing in front of the woman who can gut me with one look and probably will, because Skylar has always had excellent aim at my weak spots.
I blow out a slow breath and glance ahead.
That is when I see her.
Skylar.
She is half a block ahead, standing on the sidewalk, holding two grocery bags awkwardly in her arms.
For a second, my brain doesn’t catch up.
It sees her first.
Then it sees everything else.
The way her body is angled back from the man in front of her. The way one of the bags has slipped from her grip and spilled across the pavement. The flowers near her feet, brightyet crushed. An apple rolling toward the road. A tin on its side, dented to shit.
Then I see his hand. Some asshole has his fingers wrapped around her arm.
Everything in me goes still. That usually comes right before every bad decision I have ever made. The decisions line up behind my ribs, crack their knuckles, and wait for permission.
