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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Tears stream down my cheeks and drip from my jaw. My chin trembles as I tilt my face to the cloudless sky, desperate for the brightness to soothe me. My stomach churns, nausea rising with the anguish. I bite back a sob until my throat aches, chest heavy with the effort to keep it in until I have privacy.
My parents aren't home. I shove the groceries I'd picked up into the fridge and run upstairs. The door slams behind me and I press my forehead to the cool wood. I tell myself I'm crying from anger and confusion, but the truth creeps in. Maybe Greyson isn't hiding anything. Maybe he really can't trust me again. Maybe he's simply changed his mind about us.
Can I even be angry if that's how he feels? I did hurt him, and some people never get past betrayal. The thought slices through me and I slap my palm hard against the door, a scream building in my chest. When I open my mouth, strangled sobs burst out, echoing through the quiet room.
I know what I look like. All swollen-eyed, snotty-nosed, and red in the cheeks. I don't cry pretty like the movies. I sob long after the tears dry up, left with raw sniffles and gasps that border on hyperventilation. Mascara glues my lashes together; my chest feels crushed under a hundred-pound weight. My lungs burn as I fight for air. And yet, through the pain, a sliver of gratitude flickers. These tears mean I'm feeling. Feeling means I'm living. For months I was numb, vacant, too close to the dark thoughts I swore I'd never revisit. This heartbreak hurts, but it's also proof there's something worth losing.
I stay upstairs long after the sun drops, long after I hear my father come home and my mother call from the bottom of the stairs that dinner was ready. Heartbreak is exhausting. All I've managed is a nap, a few hours of staring at the ceiling, and then finally flipping on the television. Almost as soon as I get lost in a true-crime show about a woman who killed her DoorDash driver over the wrong order, a soft knock sounds at my bedroom door.
"Come in," I say, my voice hoarse from hours of crying.
"Hey, sweetie," my father says. "You okay?"
"Mmhmm."
"Are you feeling alright?"
"I'm fine."
He slides my legs toward the wall and sits on the edge of my bed. "You didn't come down for dinner."
"Not hungry."
"Okay." He sighs and places his hand on my blanket-covered thigh. "I thought you had plans with Greyson."
"I did." I turn off the TV and lift myself off the pillow. "But we broke up instead."
My father's head turns toward me, a frown set on his face. "You what?"
"He broke up with me."
"What happened?"
"Let's see, he can never trust me again after lying about NYU, he doesn't want to be with me, and he told me to go back to New York and try to make it work with Will." I drop my eyes and pick at the pale pink cable knit blanket covering my legs. "So..."
