“What do you want?”
“I thought we could catch up,” he says with a cocky entitlement worn in like old jeans. It’s almost laughable that he could dare act like we ended on a handshake rather than me staring at explicit messages on his phone while he tried to gaslight me into doubting my own eyes.
But it wasn’t just the other women. It was the way he wore me down. I lock my spine, meeting his gaze with the boredom reserved for a dull seminar. “I need to get back to work.”
“Can’t spare a few minutes for the man you said you loved and wanted to marry.”
“That woman was from a long time ago. I’ve moved on.”
“I miss you, Ray-Ray. You look good.” His gaze rakes over my sleeveless dress—eyeing the scoop neck, cinched waist, and bare arms—slow and invasive. It’s not the kind of dress I wore when I was with him. “A little heavier. But I don’t mind the weight. You carry it in all the right places.”
The urge to knock him into the sand is so physical, I fist my hands. This is his specialty—the compliment sharpened like a blade. A year ago, that comment would have had me spiraling in self-doubt. But through counseling and reclaiming my confidence, his words don’t have a place to land. That realization feels better than any comeback. Still, I call him out for all the times I hadn’t.
“Your words can’t hurt me anymore.”
He makes that face, the one that used to undercut my feelings and opinions. “You’re being overly sensitive, as usual. I wasn’t insulting you.”
“Being fat isn’t an insult to me. Your belief that you have the right to comment on my body is the issue.”
“How long are you going to hold this grudge?” he snaps, flipping the script to play victim.
“I’d have to care to hold a grudge, and I don’t.”
Either taking it as a challenge or simply wanting control, he reaches out and takes hold of my wrist. “Stop acting up, Ray. You know you still want me.”
I snatch my hand back. “You’re delusional. Now, I’m going to leave, and you aren’t going to follow.” My gaze remains firm. “I’d rather not give this festival a reality show, but I will call security if you come anywhere near me.”
His eyes drift toward the crowd, the vendors, and the reporters setting up for the closing remarks. Then slide back to me, a slow, taunting smile curves his mouth. “I was just trying to be friendly, but it looks like your head has gotten as inflated as your body.”
I swallow the “fuck you” burning the back of my throat. Choosing my dignity over the temporary high of cussing him out, I turn my back on him and walk away.
In the bathroom stall, my breaths come in snarled hitches. Seeing him again had exhumed all the ways I let him hurt me. I don’t take responsibility for his cruelty and deceit. But I’m still wrestling with the woman who stayed for two years, letting him chip away at her self-worth until she felt like a shadow.
Fuck him for showing up here on purpose. For trying to pull some bully power move just to get under my skin at an event he knows is important to me—when I’m running for mayor. Of course, that’s why he did it.
With ten minutes before I take the stage, I check my reflection for any sweat marks, relieved that the body antiperspirant is holding up against the heat and the cortisol spike. I run cool water over my wrists until I feel my pulse steady. Then I refresh my lipstick, exchange pleasantries with the woman at the sink next to me, take a fortifying breath, and step out into the afternoon sun to find Anika.
“Avoid mentioning the campaign,” she says in a hushed voice, adjusting a stray curl on my cheek. “You’re here on officialtown business. Don’t give the opposition any legal ammunition. You don’t need to tell them you’re running for mayor—just make them feel it.”
“Mhm.” I nod.
She pauses, her eyes narrowing. “You seem on edge. What happened?”
“Nothing important. Hollis was just here.”
“What?” Her gaze scans the crowd. “Did he talk to you?”
“Yeah. He said some shit, trying to throw me off.”
“Is he going to be trouble?” she asks, thinking ten steps ahead to crisis management.
“No.” I square my shoulders until I feel the familiar weight of my own authority. “He wanted a reaction, and he didn’t get one.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she sees the set of my chin. “Then let’s focus on the remarks.”
“No problem.” I stand tall, feeling the sun on my face. “I’m ready.”
Minutes later, I step onto the stage to a warm round of applause. I smile and applaud them back. When the crowd settles, I take the microphone.
