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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I want to walk home. My parents dropped me off on their way to dinner, but Jenkins is only about four blocks away, so it's not out of the question. Besides, it's a beautiful night and I think the cool air might help clear my head, but I only get a block before Jo pulls up next to me.
"Get in, loser. We're going home."
I shove my hands in the front pockets of my jeans and keep walking. "I'd rather walk."
"I'm just going to follow you until you're home, so you might as well get in and save us the awkwardness of me crawling along next to you for four blocks."
I stop and turn, lips pressed together, but her goofy smile tugs at my own. How am I supposed to say no to that?
Besides, my shoes cost a fortune, and I'll never forgive myself if I ruin them just because I'm too stubborn to accept a ride.
"Fine, but I'm not talking about Greyson."
She leans over and pushes the passenger door open. "Greyson who?"
We ride the rest of the way in silence. The radio's low, but the faint thrum of a James Bay song drifts through the car, and my eyes sting before I can stop them.
Jo pulls into my driveway and turns off the ignition.
"You okay?" she asks.
"No." I drop my eyes to my hands, twisting my engagement ring over and over. "I'm not okay."
Jo exhales slowly, gaze fixed ahead. "That was hard to watch."
"Try being on the receiving end." I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, leaving black smudges on my skin. "Ugh, I'm so sick of crying."
Without a word, she pulls a tissue from the glove compartment and hands it over.
"Thanks," I say. "Tissues are a far cry from when you used to offer me your sleeve."
She smiles faintly. "Yeah, well, my sleeves are kind of reserved for someone else these days."
I dab under my eyes—dark streaks staining the tissue—then drop it into the plastic trash bag swinging from the console.
"You know, I used to think things happened for a reason," I say. "Getting into NYU felt like a sign. That there was more for me than just being Greyson McKinnie's girlfriend. When we broke up, I thought it proved we weren't meant to last. I mean, if he couldn't handle long distance, how would we survive when he went pro?" I sniffle. "Then I met Will. He was in the same city, we had the same plans, and on paper, it worked. The bones of our relationship were solid. Marrying him meant stability, consistency. But..." I shake my head. "Something was always missing. Love. Respect. Trust. I don't even know anymore. I still love him—probably always will—but I think I've known for a while it's not healthy. It's toxic. Manipulative. Maybe even borderline abusive. Despite everything, I can't regret my choices, because they got me here now, but there's never been a day I haven't wondered what my life would've been if I'd gone with Greyson instead."
