Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Jenna
Iwant to die of embarrassment.
First, I basically butt-dialed Colton King and he threw my ex-boyfriend out of my apartment. Next, I ugly cried next to him all night and fell asleep. It’s over. RIP my life.
“Should we label this one ‘Emotional Baggage’ or ‘Shit He Never Used?’” Isla asks, holding up Matthew’s juicer—a Christmas gift from his mother three years ago that was used exactly twice.
“Both,” I say, tossing in the protein powder he swore would change his life. “Put it with the other aspirational purchases.” We pack his Magic: The Gathering cards, his old towels he wanted to keep because he can’t throw away old ugly stuff, his games, and whatnot.
We figured it’s easier if I pack it all up and put it in front of my door for him to pick it up.
I don’t want any contact with him. Colton and Isla are right.
I had to put up with too much over the last few years.
I’m done, and after days of crying and pitying myself, I feel like a human being again.
I can do this. I just don’t know how to face Colton ever again, and we do have another hearing in a few days.
Like I said… I want to die. Maybe just on the spot. Right here.
“Sooooo,” Isla singsongs, plopping down on a box beside me with a thud. “Russian hockey god. Your apartment. All night. Spill!”
I chuck a throw pillow at her face. “You know he’s my client, I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Those biceps though?” She flexes dramatically, nearly knocking over a box of Matthew’s stuff. “I’d let hockey god bench press me any day.”
“His name is Colton,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks heat up. “And it was embarrassing. I cried all over his probably thousand-dollar shirt.”
Isla reaches for the bottle of wine on the coffee table—the good stuff. I’d been saving for a special occasion. We both agreed that packing up my ex’s junk qualifies.
“If anyone at work finds out he stayed over, I’m toast,” I groan, accepting the overfilled glass she hands me.
“Oh please, it’s not like it’s illegal,” she says, we toast on leaving my ex and both take a sip.
“You can date your clients.’ Maybe it breaks some ancient ethical code that everyone forgot about centuries ago’.
It’s not the law.” She glances at me over the rim of her glass.
“Besides, the whole internet is already shipping you two like it’s their full-time job.
There’s literally a hashtag. #Coltenna.”
I nearly choke. “There is not!”
Isla giggles. Oh no, what now? “There is, and okay, okay, I might have floated the idea on my podcast last week. But trust me, the comments section went wild for it within hours.”
“You guys are beyond annoying. Ben literally told me to ‘lean into it’ too when I mentioned Matthew and I broke up. Apparently, the publicity is ‘great for business ‘and we’re getting new clients out of it.”
Isla’s eyes grow wide as saucers. “See? Even your BOSS wants you to fuck Hockey McHottie? This is the best day ever!”
“That is not what he said,” I protest, but I’m already laughing despite myself.
“It’s what we all want. Please, Jenna, fuck Colton King.”
“I won’t.”
Isla rolls her eyes and snatches another handful of Matthew’s shirts, flinging them into the box like they’re about to explode. There’s no folding, no second thoughts and I love her for it.
“I know you want to. You never let it out but you’re a dirty little bitch if you want to be.”
“Isla.” I throw another pillow at her.
“Please, everyone wants to sleep with him. If you don’t, I would question your sanity.”
This is so typical Isla. My best friend treats sex like it’s a particularly fun cardio workout: enjoyable, necessary, but just another bodily function.
Her fuck-buddy relationship with her co-host is almost a textbook example.
Meanwhile, I’m over here catching feelings from a single glance.
She’s like Teflon while I’m basically emotional Velcro. Everything sticks. And stays.
“Look,” she suddenly says a bit softer. “I just want to say, if you feel good with him, enjoy it. You deserve it. You lived in hell for years. Just don’t limit your luck, okay?”
I take another sip, grateful for the pause it gives me to sort my thoughts.
The truth is, I’m still trying to figure out why I let him comfort me. It feels like I’m watching myself shift into someone different right in front of my eyes.
But it did feel good. Letting him make the tea, go get the pizza, even insist on paying for both of us… none of it should have felt as easy as it did.
Matthew never did things like that.
He always waited for me to pay, and I did—more often than I should’ve.
Somewhere along the way, he gaslit me into thinking that I had to constantly prove my worth, like love was something I had to earn on repeat.
And I forgot that it’s supposed to go both ways.
That it’s meant to be shared, not performed.
I’m about to tell her that I will care more about myself now when she abruptly grabs my left hand, nearly spilling my wine.
“Wait—are we still wearing that ring from that amusement park? The plastic one Livy gave you?”
I look down at my hand, at the ring glinting on my finger. I’d almost forgotten it was there. Almost.
“I guess I am,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I never got around to taking it off.”
Isla snorts. “Please. You ‘never got around’ to taking off a plastic toy ring?”
“It was a gift,” I say defensively, twisting it around my finger. “Livy won it at one of those games where you throw balls into clown mouths. She insisted I wear it.”
The memory rises unbidden—Livy’s face lighting up as she handed me the prize, so proud of herself for winning something. It was the first time I’d seen her smile, really smile, since I took the case.
“You know it looks like a wedding ring, right?” Isla says, interrupting my thoughts. “From a distance, I mean.”
I hold my hand up, examining the cheap plastic. It does have a certain shine to it, especially under the soft lighting of my apartment.
“I don’t care what it looks like,” I say. “It was a present from Livy.”
“And that’s the only reason you’re still wearing it? It has nothing to do with playing pretend family with Hot Hockey Dad and his adorable moppet?”
I choke on my wine. “I’ll take it off… I just want her to see that I like her gifts. That’s all there is to it.”
“Uh-huh. You know that could fool the paparazzi…”
“I don’t care—” I start, but the words stick in my throat because I know she’s right. I should have taken it off… but I like it.
“I just don’t want to take it off, okay?” I finally say. “It meant something to Livy and me. That’s all.”
Isla studies me for a long moment. “Okay, fine. Keep the plastic wedding ring from your client’s kid. I’m sure it means nothing beyond a sweet memento. But you’re gone, girl. So gone.”
She reaches for another box. “So, speaking of hockey... when do the playoffs start again? And more importantly, when are you going to invite your best friend to a hot hockey party?”
Colton’s text comes in just as Isla is stacking the last of Matthew’s things into the hallway. For a moment, I thought she might spit on it, but instead, she simply wiped her hands and turned to me with a grin. We did it. Hallelujah.
Colton
Hey… I have to bring Livy to our meeting on Monday. I’m sorry, but my mom is in the hospital.
For a second, I just stare at it. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Isla is still talking. Something about how I should just charge Matthew for the emotional damage but her voice fades into the background.
My fingers tighten around my phone.
“Fuck,” I say, too fast.
Isla immediately straightens. “What? What’s up?”
“It’s Colton.” I swallow. “His mom’s sick again. She was diagnosed with lupus two years ago and now she’s in kidney failure…”
The words feel wrong in my mouth, like I’m borrowing someone else’s bad news.
Isla’s face changes instantly. “Oh fuck. I hope she’ll be okay again.”
“Me too,” I murmur, already typing. My thumbs move before I fully decide what I’m saying.
Jenna
I’m sorry. Bring Livy anytime.
I hit send and set the phone down like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.
Around us, the apartment is half-empty, half-chaos.
Matthew’s life is boxed up in cardboard like it can be reduced that easily.
We’ve already moved everything outside—clean break, no contact, no lingering conversations at the door.
Isla promised to stay with me tonight and watch The Bachelor while he comes and fetches his things.
“Okay, but this is bad, right?” Isla collapses into the cushions on my couch.
I nod before I can stop myself. “It’s not just bad. It’s very… complicated now.”
She gives me a look. “That’s lawyer-speak for ‘we’re fucked now,’ isn’t it?”
“Pretty much.” I run a hand over my face. “We’re arguing in court that his mom is a reliable support system for Colton when he goes back into season. That she can help with Livy. But if she’s in hospital—”
“Then that falls apart,” Isla finishes.
“Exactly.”
I take a deep breath. As if this case wasn’t difficult enough…
“What about his dad?” Isla asks.
“He works full-time. And he’s not exactly the ‘drop everything for grandkid emergencies’ type.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Nanny?”
“Yeah, he could hire one,” I admit, already seeing where this goes. “But then Botox Batman will argue it’s better for Livy to be with her mother. A stranger versus a parent. It’s an easy emotional angle.”
Isla lets out a low whistle. “God. This is fucked up.”
“Yes. It is.”
I text him again.
Jenna
Wanna talk?
Colton
Would love to, but I’m at the hospital and no phones allowed… but thank you. I hope we can figure this out.
Jenna
We should meet earlier on Monday.
Colton
Sure. Any time.
My throat tightens for reasons I don’t immediately want to unpack.
“Okay,” Isla says carefully, watching my face. “We need a plan.”
“I know.”
“And preferably one that doesn’t involve us all spiraling into legal disaster.”
“I’m aware.”
I sink onto the couch beside her, my gaze fixed on the screen for a moment longer than necessary before finally pressing the power button.
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
“Maybe,” Isla adds slowly, “you should just tell him to get a girlfriend.”
I look at her.
She lifts both hands. “I’m not saying you—I’m saying in general. Strategically.”
“Isla.”
“What? It’s not illegal advice.”
“It’s not legal either. It’s a lie.”
She shrugs. “Still useful.”
I exhale, leaning back into the couch like it might absorb the weight of this. “I’m going to have to rethink everything tomorrow. Bye Sunday.”
“Love that for you,” she says, already reaching for the second wine bottle.
And I don’t answer.
Because I’m already thinking about how many things can fall apart at once—and how Colton and I apparently collect them like it’s a hobby. We can just hope it won’t slip out that Colton’s mom is in the hospital and that Mira and fucking Goldblatt won’t find out for a long, long time.