“What is it, then?” I ask, already know where this conversation is going.
“We both know this has been coming,” he says finally.
The anger drains slowly from my body, because part of me knows he isn’t entirely wrong. There’s been distance growing between us for months now, time together dwindling, less patience about my need to wait for sex, and his attention wandering whenever prettier girls entered rooms.
Still, knowing something was dying doesn’t make hearing it hurt any less, though.
“And now that I’m a Beta,” Gabe continues carefully, “my reputation matters.”
For a second, my brain refuses to process the sentence. The words hit my ears individually without connecting into meaning. Then understanding clicks into place, sharp enough to physically hurt.
His reputation.
My throat tightens as I picture the girls I used to see hanging off his arm at parties before we started dating. Tall girls. Tinygirls. All with blonde hair cascading down bronzed backs, while they laughed too loudly and moved through crowded rooms as if they belonged there. Girls who looked effortless. Ones who didn’t count calories silently every time they sat down to eat or tug shirts away from their stomachs when fabric clung wrong. Girls who never had to wonder whether the man touching them secretly wished for somebody prettier.
I’ve never been that kind of girl.
I’m short. Curvy in ways magazines politely call “plus-sized.” I study bioengineering and chemistry because I want to save things, not because it is Instagram-worthy. I don’t sleep around. I don’t party enough. I don’t fit.
And suddenly I realize that Gabe sees me that way, too. My chest burns painfully, and I softly whisper, “Oh.”
Gabe sighs into the phone like this entire conversation is exhausting him. “Mackenzi…”
Breaking up with me? That hurts, but honestly, part of me expected it eventually. This relationship has been slowly bleeding out for months. But this? This implication that I’m somehow embarrassing him because I don’t fit the image he wants attached to his shiny new fraternity status hits a nerve inside me. Somewhere deep where I’ve hidden every insecurity I’ve spent years trying desperately to outrun.
“So…” My voice cracks slightly. “We’re breaking up.”
The hesitation before he answers tells me everything.
“I think…” He exhales softly. “Yeah. I think that’s for the best.”
That’s it. It’s official. The strange thing is, my first emotion isn’t heartbreak. It’shumiliation.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I agree.”
“I knew you’d understand.” Relief floods his voice immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission. “Thanks for not making this a big thing.”
Big thing?The words slice straight through me like a knife. I’m not being mature about this. It’s hard to argue when he just carved open the most vulnerable parts of me and left me wounded across the marble countertop.
I stare blindly at the little Florida-shaped chip on the island. “Sure,” I murmur. “See you around.”
“Yeah,” he says. “See you.”
The call disconnects with a soft click, and suddenly, the kitchen is deafeningly silent.
I keep staring at the phone long after the screen goes black. Then slowly and mechanically, I lower it onto the counter. The sound echoes sharply through the empty kitchen, and I break.
With my hands covering my face, tears spill hot and humiliating through my fingers. It’s not cinematic or pretty. My shoulders shake violently while broken breaths catch painfully in my chest, every emotion I’ve been holding together crashing into me at once—rejection, shame, anger, and embarrassment rising to the top.
God, I’m so fucking embarrassed.
Some horrible little piece of me believes him, and I immediately start cataloging each of my flaws.Too thick. Tooawkward. Too emotional. Too much, but not enough. Never enough.
I cry harder because I hate that my brain does that.
Footsteps sound suddenly behind me, and I gasp, jerking upright immediately. I scrub furiously at my face with my sleeves while panic slams into me.
Oh my God. Please don’t let it be everyone.
