The best man

Chapter 11

A few days pass, and silence hangs in the air. No messages from Conor, not that I expected any. I haven't heard from Ethan either, and that absence stings more than I want to admit. My mind drifts between the emptiness of my home and the heaviness in my heart as I clean, tidying up the clutter in a futile attempt to organize my thoughts. I reach for a book from my shelf—*The Time Traveler's Wife* by Audrey Niffenegger, a favorite from 2009. I curl up on the couch, but the words blur on the page as I lose focus, the story fading into the background of my mind.

After a while, I rummage through the fridge for leftovers, reheating a plate of cold pasta. Eating alone, the taste feels dull and lifeless, mirroring my mood. I glance out the window, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting gentle shadows across the room. I close my eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos of my thoughts.

But then Ethan's face invades my mind. I can almost feel the warmth of his lips against mine, the gentle pressure of his hands holding my waist. His smile, the way his laughter used to light up the room—it all floods back, and I find myself aching for what could have been. I think of our conversations, the way he listened, really listened, and how easy it was to be with him. But then I remember the image of him with that woman, the way they held hands, and a wave of hurt crashes over me.

A single tear escapes, rolling down my cheek, followed by another, and soon I'm overwhelmed. I try to wipe them away, but more keep coming, as if my heart has finally decided to release all the pain I've been holding back. I spend the whole day crying, letting the tears flow freely, hoping that with each drop, I'm also releasing some of the heartache that's wrapped itself around me like a thick fog.

Just as the shadows begin to stretch across my living room, my phone buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts. It's a message from Shelly, a small beacon of light in my otherwise dim day. I glance at it, a flicker of hope igniting in my chest. Maybe I won't have to feel so alone after all.

I quickly open the message, eager for a distraction. "Hey! Just checking in on you. Want to meet up later?" The warmth in her words is like a balm to my aching heart. I hesitate for a moment, weighing the comfort of solitude against the pull of friendship.

I type back, "Yeah, I could use some company. When and where?"

Her response is immediate: "How about the café on Fifth? I'll be there in an hour!"

I glance around my living room, taking in the mess I've created of my emotions. With a sigh, I decide it's time to get out of this headspace. I change into something comfortable but nice—a black sweater and jeans—and splash some water on my face, trying to freshen up.

As I grab my jacket, I feel a mix of anxiety and excitement. Maybe being with Shelly will help me find my footing again, or at least distract me from the turmoil that has consumed my thoughts. I head out the door, the weight of my heartache still present but slightly lighter with the promise of friendship.