Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Fuck.
...Fuck.
I watch Delaney and Jo disappear out of the bar, the door swinging shut behind them like it didn't just take all the oxygen in the room with it, and for a second – just a moment – it hits me to go after her, to fix it, to say something that might undo the look on her face before she walked out.
I don't move, and the fact that I don't sits wrong in a way I can't explain, like ignoring something that used to come as naturally as breathing.
There was a time I wouldn't have hesitated, would've shown up wherever she was with something thought-out and just sincere enough to make her soften, would've stayed until she let me in, because she always did – but that version of us feels too far out of reach to matter now, and I know better than to pretend otherwise.
It's not my place anymore. That's the part I keep coming back to, the only thing that makes any kind of sense, even if it doesn't feel right. Whatever happens after she walks out that door doesn't have anything to do with me, and she has someone else for that now. Someone who actually gets to be the one she calls when she's upset, someone who answers.
I take a drink without thinking, more out of habit than anything else, the cold bite hitting my tongue before I even register I don't want it, and when I swallow, it doesn't do a damn thing except sit heavy in my stomach.
It used to take the edge off. Now it just reminds me I'm still here.
I drag a hand over my face and head toward the back, dropping onto the stool across from Wyatt and Mitchell, my shoulders already tight, like something's been wound too far and never let go. The bottle turns once between my fingers as condensation slips down onto the napkin beneath it, giving me something to focus on that isn't the door she just left through.
The noise of the bar settles in around me – pool balls cracking somewhere off to the side, a burst of laughter near the dartboard, loud and careless, like nothing's changed – like everything is exactly the same.
Everything except this table.
My friends are quiet in a way that doesn't belong to them. Not distracted, not easy, just waiting, and I don't need to look to know they're watching me, but I do anyway, because apparently making bad decisions is a theme tonight.
"What?" I ask, sharper than I anticipate, already bracing for it. "You gonna say something or just keep staring?"
Mitchell doesn't flinch. He never does. "You were out of line."
His words don't hit hard, but they land exactly where they're supposed to, and I let out a breath that doesn't quite pass for a laugh as I take another drink.
"What'd she ever do to you?" he adds, not pushing, just asking.
"We're not doing this," I say, setting my bottle down, the glass knocking against the table with a dull sound that feels louder than it should.
