Page 48 of The Art of Ruin

There was no performance in it. No expectation. No subtle pressure wrapped inside the gesture.

Just simple practicality delivered in that steady, infuriatingly calm voice of his.

Use this for anything Letty needs.

Like it never once occurred to him she should go without something because of pride.

I lean against the counter, staring at the card again.

It’s absurdly heavy for something so small.

Maybe that’s what trust feels like when you’re no longer sure you know how to accept it properly. The thought unsettlesme enough that I grab my coat and decide I need fresh air immediately.

The city is cold enough to sting when I step outside, sharp winter air biting at my cheeks as I pull my scarf higher and start walking toward the subway station. Around me, New York moves at its usual relentless pace, people weaving around each other with coffees clutched in gloved hands while taxis spray slush toward the curb.

It feels good to disappear into it for a little while.

By the time I reach Bryant Park, the holiday market is already busy, strings of white lights glowing against the gray afternoon sky while music drifts softly between the stalls. People move slowly here despite the cold, bundled in scarves and wool coats, stopping to admire ornaments and candles and handmade winter decorations.

For the first time all week, I start to feel myself relax.

The second my phone starts vibrating again, dread curls low in my stomach.

Jasper.

He’s been texting incessantly since yesterday evening, which is probably contributing more to my sudden need to escape the house than I want to admit. Apparently, he’s decided if I ignore the messages long enough, escalating to phone calls will somehow change the outcome.

It won’t.

I stare at the screen while the phone rings, his name glowing up at me while the world around me keeps moving like nothing happened.

Eventually, it stops.

A second later, another message appears.

Can we please talk?

I lock the screen immediately and shove the phone back into my bag harder than necessary.

What exactly he thinks we still have left to discuss is beyond me. He cheated. He lied. He hid a child from me while standing in my kitchen talking about our future like he hadn’t already detonated it behind my back.

There’s no conversation that fixes that.

My pulse starts climbing anyway, irritation burning hotter now than grief.

According to Isabella, this is apparently the phase where I either cut all my hair off or become an aggressive feminist who adopts six cats and starts writing angry essays about men.

Honestly, both currently feel reasonable.

I drift toward the holiday stalls, trying to shake the feeling off by focusing on thick pine garlands wrapped around wooden displays and jars of dried cranberries and orange slices meant for decorating Christmas trees instead. Somewhere nearby, someone is selling mulled cider, the scent of cinnamon and clove curling warmly through the cold air.

My phone buzzes.

Then again.

By the fourth message, irritation starts bleeding into the edges of the afternoon badly enough that it makes me angry all over again. I pull the phone back out.

You can’t ignore me forever.