92. Carter
Carter
S ome moments stick to you like burrs — you can try to shake them off, but they cling.
The day I walked into my girlfriend’s office and found her tangled up with her boss? That one dug in deep.
The coffee in my hand went cold before I could even put it down. I stood there in the doorway, the hum of the copier in the corner filling the silence. Her laugh — the same laugh I used to think was meant for me — was muffled against him. She turned her head and jerked.
“Carter—” she started, eyes wide, lipstick smeared, blouse half-buttoned.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My hands curled around the cardboard coffee tray like it was the only thing keeping me upright. An entire year wasted on someone who I thought loved me.
The boss had the nerve to smirk, like he’d just won some contest I didn’t even know we were in.
I set the coffee on her desk — hers still in it — and stepped back. My voice came out calm, too calm.
“Guess I don’t need to ask how late you’ll be working.”
I walked away before she could say another word. If I stayed, I’d say things I couldn’t take back — and I’d already lost enough today.