3. Skye #2
Because there she is, right there in his cover photo. Some sun-kissed, yoga-bodied girl with a minuscule waist and perfect teeth. Their matching Patagonia fleeces should be a crime.
I stare for too long. Then I scroll. And scroll.
They’ve been dating for a few weeks at least. Which means he lied about needing space. About not being ready. Which means— My screen blurs. Fuck . I’m crying.
I close the app and bury my face in the pillow, not even bothering to pretend I’m okay. It’s not just Shane. Or Archer. It’s all of it. All the times I let someone else define whether I was worth staying for. Whether I was enough.
I don’t know what hurts more at this point, seeing him happy with someone else or realizing how easily he replaced me. Like I was just a placeholder. Something to pass the time until someone more “aligned with his values” came along.
I set my phone down gently. Then I really cry.
Not a sob. Not a dramatic, cinematic tear-fest. Just a quiet, breathless leak of grief and anger that I didn’t realize was still lodged somewhere behind my ribs.
It’s not even about them, really. It’s about me. About how hard I tried. How much I bent. How much of myself I carved off to fit into other people’s lives. And for what?
To be told I was too much. Too intense. Too ambitious. Too unavailable. Too everything.
I curl tighter into the couch, pressing my face into the pillow. It smells like lavender and dryer sheets. Home. Safety.
I’ve spent so long working. Hustling. Clawing my way toward a version of success that always moved just out of reach. And when I finally had it, when I was climbing the ladder, hitting the metrics, doing all the things—they still left. They always leave.
I don’t know how long I stay like that. Ten minutes? Thirty? Time stretches and shrinks when you’re mourning a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore.
Eventually, I sit up. My head spins slightly from the wine and moving too quickly and my cheeks are warm and damp. Reece’s card is still sitting there, glowing like a golden ticket to a different life.
Maybe that’s why I’m spiraling. Because for the first time in forever, something shifted.
Instead of feeling like I had to make a life decision and figure out the next decade of my life, I’ve been given a chance to just take a job for the next few weeks that will allow me to get my life back on track.
There’s a knock at my door just after nine a.m., which can only mean one of two things: a package I forgot I ordered or Maya on a mission. Reluctantly, I slide on my sweatpants on the off chance it is a stranger and trudge toward the door.
I open it to find her holding a cardboard tray with two coffees, a paper bag between her teeth, and the expression of someone determined to fix what I undoubtedly broke overnight.
I step aside without a word, and she breezes in, toeing off her shoes with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times, because she has.
“You’re lucky I love you,” she says, setting everything on the counter. “Because I was halfway to SoulCycle when I had a feeling you needed carbs more than I needed to pretend I enjoy sweating and bouncing around on a bike.”
“You are a literal angel.” I sigh, grabbing the coffee with my name scribbled in Sharpie and inhaling it like I’m trying to revive a corpse.
Maya arches a brow as she watches me shuffle to the couch. “So. You gonna tell me how far down the spiral you went last night, or do I have to guess based on the number of cheese wrappers I’m about to find in your trash?”
I groan, already curling into the cushions. “Do we really have to talk about it?”
“Depends. Did you do something unhinged like DM Reece Blackwood a reel of you lip-syncing ‘Earned It,’ or did you just stalk your exes until you cried into your cat’s fur?”
“I don’t have a cat.”
“Well, now we know what’s missing in your life.”
I laugh in spite of my pathetic situation, hiding my face behind the coffee cup. “Okay, fine. You were right.”
Maya blinks. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
She slides onto the couch beside me, grinning. “About what, exactly? Be specific. I want to savor this.”
I roll my eyes but give in. “Reece. The offer. The… effect.”
Maya gasps, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Are you saying you’re actually considering it?”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“But you’re thinking about it.”
“I didn’t say no.”
She grins like she just won a bet. “That’s all I needed. We’re making progress.”
“I also cried over Shane and rage-Googled Archer, so don’t throw me a parade just yet.”
“Still progress,” she insists. “You’re feeling things. That’s good.”
“Is it? Because it mostly feels like emotional whiplash and a hangover wrapped in a Garfield t-shirt.”
Maya gives me a look. “Skye. You’ve been checked out for months. Head down, working, surviving. This is the first time in forever I’ve seen you light up—even if it’s just from the adrenaline of possibly self-destructing in an extremely hot, very complicated way.”
I lean back against the cushion and let the silence stretch.
“I can’t tell if this is an opportunity or a terrible idea wearing a really well-tailored suit,” I finally say.
“Maybe it’s both. Take the job and just enjoy the view.”
“That doesn’t help.”
Maya shrugs. “Most of the best things in life start with a little danger.”
“Says the woman who once tried to hook up with a bartender who turned out to have four active warrants in four different states.”
“Hey, I asked the right questions. I just didn’t love the answers.”
We fall into comfortable silence, sipping coffee and chewing through our mutual denial in the form of overpriced bagels. Mine has the perfect cream cheese-to-bread ratio and is doing more emotional heavy lifting than my last three therapy sessions combined.
Eventually, Maya stands and dusts off her hands. “Listen. I’m not telling you to take the job because I think you should try to seduce your ex’s dad—although if that’s where this ends up, I strongly encourage it, and I also expect a full play-by-play.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m saying maybe, just maybe, this is your chance to stop waiting for life to make sense and start choosing something that makes you feel something again.
You have always been the type to think you have to have it all figured out.
Your career, the husband and house and kids and all that.
You’re only twenty-seven, just chill for a bit.
Think about what it is you really want to do because we both know that even though it sucks ass that you got let go, you fucking hated that job. ”
I blink at her, surprised by the weight in her tone. “That was almost profound.”
She winks. “Thanks, I have layers.” She starts gathering her things but pauses when her gaze flicks to the business card still sitting untouched on the coffee table.
“Have you called him yet?” she asks casually, even though her voice holds the kind of challenge that only comes when your best friend already knows your answer.
I snort. “No. I’m not ready to make a life-altering decision while wearing sweatpants that smell like regret and shredded cheese.”
She folds her arms, leaning against the arm of the couch. “So what’s the holdup? The man offered you a job, not a sex dungeon contract.”
“I mean, are we sure?” I arch a brow. “He does have that whole Christian Grey, might-have-a-secret-floor-in-his-building vibe.”
Maya smirks. “Please. If he does, it’s probably fully optimized for productivity and erotic restraint.”
I exhale hard, tugging at the fraying sleeve of my hoodie. “It’s not just the job. It’s him. Reece Blackwood. Archer’s dad. Billionaire. Serious as hell. And then there’s me…”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m not being self-deprecating,” I lie.
I don’t know how to express that getting fired, no matter how many times they try to repackage it with different words like “corporate downsizing,” really was the final blow for me.
A real kick in the ass when I’m already down from getting dumped by Shane.
It’s been a minute since my self-esteem has taken a blow this hard and frankly, I’m a little tired of always getting back up.
“You are. And I won’t allow it. Not in this apartment where I once saw you shotgun a can of whipped cream and belt Lizzo to your mailman.”
“That was one time.”
“Still legendary.”
I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
Because the truth is, this fantasy—this dark, delicious what-if running laps in my brain—has teeth.
Sharp ones. And more than that, I honestly think my pride would take the biggest hit.
Waiting hand and foot on your ex’s dad, an ex that treated you like trash.
“I can’t work for him,” I say softly. “Not without thinking about things I shouldn’t.”
“Like what he looks like when he’s sweaty and half-undone?”
I shoot her a look.
She grins, all teeth and mischief. “Don’t act like you haven’t imagined it. The tie loosened. The sleeves rolled up. His voice in your ear while you?—”
“Maya!”
“What?” She shrugs, utterly unbothered. “You’re single. He’s single. You’re both consenting adults with a glaring power imbalance and decades between your birth years. That’s not scandalous—it’s just sexy LinkedIn fanfic.”
I press my palms to my cheeks. “I hate everything you’re saying and also want to write it down for later. But while this is all fun and games, it’s not about the fact I can’t keep my hands to myself. It’s the fact that I feel like a failure and it’s a little humiliating.”
“Because of who it is?” I nod and she sighs. “I get it. I know that Archer was a prick back then and hey, he probably still is, but don’t pass up a good opportunity just because some slutty-ass dude couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
Maya walks to the door, grabbing her keys from the hook. But just before she opens it, she turns back, eyes softer now.
“You don’t have to do anything, Skye. But maybe… maybe stop punishing yourself for wanting something different. Something bold.”
I frown. “You think sleeping with my ex’s dad is bold?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “No. I think not doing anything because you're afraid of what it might look like is cowardly.”
I go still, the words hitting a little too close to home.
“I’m not saying screw your way through your trauma,” she adds, more gently this time. “But maybe screw someone who makes you forget you ever had any.”
I laugh despite the sting in my chest.
Maya opens the door, and with one last glance over her shoulder, she winks.
“And hey, if the opportunity arises to screw your ex’s dad, then hell yes. Do it for the plot.”
After she leaves, I wash the dishes. I do a load of laundry. I sweep, organize my junk drawer, and alphabetize my spice rack, because when I’m overwhelmed, I micro-control everything that won’t talk back.
But none of it stops the pull.
Late afternoon light filters through my windows, soft and golden, and I find myself back at my kitchen island, staring at the card again.
I pull out my laptop and sit.
Just sit.
For a long time, I don’t do anything. I just let the cursor blink on the blank email screen while my heart hammers something frantic behind my ribs.
This isn’t just about a job. It’s about an opportunity, an open door to just check out mentally for a bit while I get my life figured out and still collect a paycheck.
But deep down inside, I do hope it’s more than that. As fucked up and selfish and… really, really fucked up it is to be salivating over your ex’s dad, I can’t seem to stop myself.
And I don’t think I really even want to try.
So, against my bruised ego and better judgment, I type up a quick note and send it to the email address on his card, along with my résumé. Then I grab my phone and type in the cell number he scribbled on the back.
Me: Hi, Mr. Blackwood, it’s Skye. I just wanted to let you know I sent my résumé over and I’d be happy to set up an interview with you. Let me know the best time.
Before I can second-guess everything, I hit send.