Page 36 of On the Breakaway

Wesley raises her glass immediately. “Now that’s a plan I can support.”

“Nathan would literally cry.”

“He can visit.”

I roll my eyes again, knowing damn well she’d have him moved in within the month.

“What if you want to bring home your flavor of the week?” Wesley teases, picking up a handful of the trail mix between us.

“I already told you last week, there’s no flavor of the week.”

“You were serious about that?” Wesley asks.

“There isn’t anyone recent. Not when it comes to sex,” I double down.

“But Becca said there was that soccer player.” She furrows her brow as if trying to make sense of it.

“I mean, I’ve made out with some guys at the bar. You already know that.” I tip my glass to get an ice cube and chew on it to stall. “But, um, there hasn’t been anything more than that for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“A while.”

She passes me the shot that the bartender just dropped off. “A month?”

I shake my head.

“Two months?”

I shake my head again.

“Three months?”

Oh, for fucks sake, I’m not doing this. “Since Damon.”

I can feel her looking at me differently now, like I’ve suddenly become porcelain that she might crack if she responds the wrong way. My stomach twists. Before she can say anything, I grab the shot and throw it back, welcoming the burn because at least it’s a sensation I understand.

Unlike the ugly pressure building in my chest every time Damon’s name comes up lately.

Maybe it’s the tequila loosening my tongue, or maybe I’m tired after two straight hours of my mother romanticizing a relationship that nearly hollowed me out from the inside, but keeping it all in suddenly feels too hard.

“The breakup fucked with my head a bit,” I admit finally, tracing condensation down the side of my glass. “I decided to take a step back from things for a while.”

“You broke up nine months ago,” Wesley says carefully.

“I’m aware.”

Her hand lands gently over mine. “Did something happen?”

I pull away instantly, fast enough that she notices. “You already know he was an asshole. You never liked him.”

“Yeah, but you did. So what happened?”

I can’t figure out how to say that the relationship had been a slow, careful erosion of Damon taking and taking until I didn’t recognize myself. Then I can’t figure out how to explain that I’d learned to flinch when he started slamming doors, knowing that a fight was imminent.

The words get lost somewhere between my heart and my mouth.

Her eyes are focused on my face, concern etched into every feature, and my mouth goes dry. If she’s this concerned without knowing the full story, I can’t imagine the pity she’d feel if she knew everything.