Page 2 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“Fine,” I say, words cracking despite my best efforts. “Go ahead, then. Leave. Go be happy with your stable little life. I know how much you flip-flop, Bryce. But when you change your mind, don't bother coming back.”

I can feel the tears rising, but I refuse to cry in front of him. I push past him, trying to keep my composure as the stares burn into me.

He doesn’t call after me, which, honestly, feels very on brand for Bryce Biggs.

I keep walking, faster than I probably should considering the way everything feels slightly tilted. My chest is tight, my throat burning, and I’m pretty sure if I stop moving for even a second, I’ll cry. Like, ugly cry. The kind with hiccups and no dignity.

Eight months.

Eight months of my life, packed into two suitcases and a man who apparently woke up this morning and decided, you know what, emotional devastation sounds fun.

I gave up everything for him.

My carefully curated, semi-functional life where I at least knew what I was doing from one day to the next.

And for what?

So he could dump me next to an Auntie Annie’s and then go live his “peaceful” life with someone “stable”?

Stable.

I'm stable.

I paid my rent on time. I kept tiny humans alive for a living. I once assembled IKEA furniture without crying.

That should qualify me for some kind of medal, frankly.

I stop, the reality of everything pressing in all at once, heavy and suffocating. For a brief, terrifying moment, I consider turning around. Going back.

But back to what?

Back to explaining to everyone that I uprooted my entire life for a man who didn’t even have the decency to break up with me in private?

Yeah. No. Absolutely not.

I mean, he was right about one thing. I was definitely looking forward to living closer to Luci.

I drag my suitcases toward the check-in area.

“Hi,” I say to the woman at the desk, aiming for composed and landing somewhere closer to mildly unhinged. “Same flight. Just… significantly less boyfriend.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly, but to her credit, she doesn’t ask questions.

“We can fix that for you,” she says, fingers already moving across the keyboard.

“Love that,” I murmur. “Big fan of fixing things today.”

I hand over my ID, trying not to think too hard about how my entire life just got edited like it was nothing. Like he just hit delete and moved on.

“Checking bags?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” I say. “Take them. Take everything. Symbolic fresh start and all that.”

This time, she does smile.

“Gate B12,” she says, handing me my boarding pass.

“Perfect,” I say brightly. “Economy cramped flight for a life I don’t even know yet. Exactly the experience I deserve today.”