Once he sets the phone down, he reaches out and presses his hand against my shoulder, pushing me enough to fall back into the cushions.
“You know,” he murmurs, leaning in until our noses are touching. “I should be the only one who makes you smile like that.”
He says it like it’s a joke, like it’s sweet.
Like I should feel some kind of way that my man is jealous. But I’m not. All I feel toward him is emptiness, nothing, an ache where my love for him used to be.
He leans back enough to look at me before claiming my mouth with a searing kiss, his tongue pressing past my lips as nausea swirls through me.
I push him off of me, and he glares at me. Without a word, he walks back into our bedroom and slams the door shut. A faint sound of his game turning on a second later.
The knot in my chest tightens, and the excitement I felt just a moment ago fades away.
Walking toward the kitchen, I grab a dish towel and turn back to the sink, the thought of Nashville slowly fading as I continue moving through the kitchen.
Crouching down as I scour the cabinets, I grab the kettle, fill it with water, and place it on the stove.
The kettle shrieks, a sharp whistle that cuts through the silence, and I pour boiling water over a tea bag, watching amber seep into the steaming cup.
On the balcony, I hold the mug against my chest and breathe in the ocean air.
Below me, Santa Monica hums with the noise of traffic, chatter, and screams spilling out along the pier. It’s everything I used to love, everything I thought I’d built for myself. But right now, the city feels like a backdrop, and I’m the only one who doesn’t belong in the scene.
When the tea cools, I make my way back to the kitchen and rinse the mug, load a few stray dishes into the dishwasher, and wipe the counters.
Back on the couch, I open my laptop again. The files automatically load, the rainbow wheel of doom spinning until Brian’s face fills the screen. His grin’s wide, charming, and directly aimed at the camera.
I press play, watching him slide his arm around me and tilt my chin so the camera captures his kiss. It looks perfect. God, it’ll sell.
But my stomach knots. Because I see the emptiness in his eyes that no one else will notice. The calculation behind every gesture. The way his thumb stroked my jaw was as if I were a product, not a person.
I cut the clip, trim the edges, and brighten the frame until we glow. The edits pile up, my fingers moving on autopilot while my heart aches with every keystroke.
Quickly, I glance at my phone.
Reed’s reply is still there, eleven simple words.
Yeah. Just say when. I’ll be here to pick you up.
It shouldn’t mean so much, but it does.
I run my thumb over the screen, reopening our thread and rereading the message until I memorize it. I almost typed something else—Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.
But I delete it before it’s even sent, my breath getting stuck in my throat.
I let the words play back in my mind: his steady, gruff voice and his quiet confidence.
For the first time today, my lips curve into something unpracticed.
The video stays paused on the laptop screen, frozen mid-laugh. But I’m no longer paying attention to it.
Instead, I’m staring at Reed’s name glowing on my phone, wondering how someone who began as a friend suddenly feels like the quiet place my heart has been searching for all along.
reed
. . .
Idrag my broom across the living room floor, its bristles catching on a loose thread in the rug. I shake it free with a grunt and keep going, making steady strokes back and forth until the wood grain reappears.
