Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
NAOMI
D ays blend into a haze of spreadsheets and coffee.
Numbers don’t ask questions. Numbers don’t care if I skip lunch. Numbers don’t look at me with concern like Blake does, or?—
I don’t need Brandon Milton.
The mantra echoes through my head during budget meetings, late nights at the office, and morning runs that leave my legs shaking and my lungs burning.
I don’t need anyone.
My phone stays dark. No texts about dinner plans. No pictures of food. No random memes at midnight that make me smile despite myself.
This is better.
The week crawls by on autopilot. Wake up. Run. Work. Home. Sleep. Repeat. The rhythm should feel familiar, it’s how I survived the last months without Brandon crashing into my day with his dimpled smile and stupid pet names.
So what’s a few more?
Or forever…
And the day I dreaded the most sneaks up. Thursday.
Our standing dinner reservation at Elliot’s hangs in the air like a question mark. Do we even still have dinner dates? Did ending our arrangement mean ending everything?
My fingers hover over Brandon’s contact info.
Should I ask? Write?
Fuck this.
The drive to Elliot’s doesn’t take long, and before I know it, I’m inside, but?—
Our table sits empty. The table where Brandon always waits for me is… empty.
Marcus appears beside me. “Water with lemon, Ms Smith?”
I nod at him, sinking into the leather seat. The fabric of my dress catches on the upholstery, another habit I haven’t broken. Dressing up for these dinners, even though Brandon’s seen me in sweats and one of his old t-shirts.
A very comfortable old T-shirt, I actually miss.
“Would you like to order, or are you waiting for Mr. Milton?”
My throat tightens. “I’ll wait.”
The water arrives, condensation beading on the glass like the sweat forming on my palms. Ice cubes clink as I lift it, trying to wash away the bitter taste of feeling pathetic.
What am I doing here?
I should leave. Should stop checking my phone every thirty seconds. Should stop glancing at the door like a desperate ex-girlfriend.
But I stay. Watch the minutes tick by on my phone screen. One hour stretches into forever, each passing moment cementing what I already know.
He meant it. He’s really done.
The water glass is empty, my chest feels hollow, and Brandon Milton isn’t going to walk through that door.
My phone buzzes against the table, his name lighting up the screen. My heart stops, then races.
His voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t slept. “What are you doing?”
I look around the restaurant. “What do you mean?” Is he here?
“You’re at our table.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Are you stalking me?”
“Elliot texted.” A pause. “Said you’ve been sitting there for an hour, although I canceled our regular reservations.”
Of course Elliot would tell Brandon. Of course Brandon would call. Of course I’d make a fool of myself, sitting here like some lovesick teenager who can’t take a hint.
The ice in my glass has melted, water droplets sliding down to pool on the white tablecloth. Just like the first time we met here, when he ordered that ridiculous chocolate cake and wouldn’t shut up about the proper way to appreciate dessert. Back when this was just an arrangement.
Before I started caring.
What am I doing?
This isn’t me. I don’t pine. I don’t wait around. I’m Naomi Smith. I make million-dollar decisions and keep my shit together.
Except when it comes to Brandon Milton.
The leather seat creaks as I shift, my dress too tight, the restaurant too warm. Every bite I’ve managed to keep down in this place flashes through my mind—the first tentative forkful of pasta, that damn half-eaten burger.
Each meal a victory. Each moment stored away like treasure.
Now what? Back to salads and bathroom breaks? Back to avoiding mirrors? Back to?—
“You still there?” Brandon’s voice cuts through my spiral.
I press my palm flat against the cool table surface. “I was just hungry.”
Please say something. Call my bullshit.
“Okay.” His voice is soft, defeated. “Have a nice dinner.”
“Wait! I—” My throat closes around everything I want to say.
Every admission. Every apology. Every truth I’ve been choking down like the food I can’t keep inside.
More silence.
“You don’t need to feel sorry or apologize.” The gentleness in his voice hurts more than anger would. “It’s better this way. Us breaking up.”
My grip on the phone turns ironclad, as if holding on could change what I just heard.
“I’m tired of pretending, and I know you’ll never let yourself need me.” Another pause. “I thought it would just take time. That you’d need me as much as I need you.”
The restaurant blurs around me.
“I’m just not the right guy for you.” He gives a dry, humorless laugh. “Our arrangement was supposed to help us both, but I think I’m just making everything harder for you.”
Years of wasted moments flash through my mind. How many mornings did I miss, wrapped in his arms? How many nights on his couch, watching him attempt to cook? How many simple dinners without this constant war in my head?
All those moments thrown away because I couldn’t stop punishing myself for my mother. My mother, who in the end left me alone with the guilt anyway.
Brandon saw me. The real me. Bingeing and purging and self-loathing tendencies included. He didn’t run. He pulled me closer, held me tighter.
Until I pushed him away.
Words still stick in my throat.
“Goodbye, cupcake.” He ends the call.
My fingers move on their own accord, ordering an Uber. The address I punch in is muscle memory by now, I’ve typed it a thousand times.
Streetlights blur past the window. My heart pounds harder with each turn, each stoplight, each mile closer to where I need to be.
The car pulls up to the iron gates of Morozov Villa. Not the downtown apartment I’d first thought of. Not Brandon’s place.
Tonight, I need my best friend before I mess up further.
Blake opens the door before I reach it. One look at my face telling her everything she needs to know.
“Fuck him,” she says, pulling me inside.
Hours later, I’m curled into her leather couch, blanket around my shoulders, while Blake pours us both another drink.
“You didn’t hear him, B.” My voice sounds raw, even to my own ears. “The way his voice just… went flat. Like I was just another business transaction to close.”
“So fix it.” She picks up my phone. “Call him. Talk to him. Hell, show up at his place naked if you have to.”
I snatch my phone back. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” She sprawls across the couch, her feet landing on my lap.
Why not? Because I’m terrified. Because every time I let someone in, they leave or die or turn out to be murderers. Because Brandon deserves better than my fucked-up, eating-disordered ass.
He’s right I’ll never let myself need him.
“He ended it,” I say instead.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Of course not.” The admission burns, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be. “But what choice do I have? I can’t keep stringing him along. It’s not fair to either of us. He doesn’t want me anymore.”
She snorts. “Please. That man is still gone for you.”
“Do you really think so?”
Her eyes lock onto mine. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “See what?”
“The way he looks at you. How he practically growls at anyone who gets too close to you. The fact that he stayed by your side since college.” Blake takes another sip of her drink. “That’s not fake dating, NayNay. That’s a man in love.”
My stomach twists. “Then why did he end it?”
“Because you keep pushing him away.” She nudges me with her foot. “So he probably thinks that you’re happier without him. And giving up someone you love because you think they’ll be better off? That’s like the biggest love confession there is. And before you start with the whole ‘I’m protecting him’ bullshit, let me ask you something. Has Brandon ever needed protecting?”
“No,” I whisper.
“You’re both idiots.”
“Says the queen of?—”
“Bitches. Exactly.” Her mascara’s smudged eyes fix on me, testament to another night she probably doesn’t remember.
My phone buzzes.
Reminder: Family dinner tomorrow 6pm.
The last time I sat at that dining table, Mom was alive. Her chair will be empty now. Another person I couldn’t save.
I rub my arm. “You didn’t hear how defeated he sounded.”
“Want me to prove it?”
“Prove what?”
“That Brandon Milton is so far from over you, it’s actually pathetic. Give me one week.”
I sit up straighter. “B, what are you planning?”
“What I do best, NayNay.” Her lips curl into something wicked. “A party.”
“No. Absolutely not. The last time you threw a party?—”
“Was legendary, and you know it.” She stretches like a cat who’s spotted a particularly entertaining mouse. “Besides, when have my plans ever failed?”
Failed is an understatement. Three people ended up in the ER, and I woke up with a tattoo of Winnie the Pooh on my ass cheek. Good thing it wasn’t permanent.
“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?” I ask.
“Do you want your man back or not?”