Chapter 3 #2
I desperately reach for something from my therapy sessions, some piece of wisdom about self-worth or standing in your power.
Instead, the only thing that comes to mind is from The Princess Diaries when Joe tells Mia that thing about…
nobody making you feel inferior without permission?
Or consent? Something like that. Pretty sure it’s Eleanor Roosevelt originally, but I only know it from a Disney movie I watched while demolishing Ben & Jerry’s during the worst of my divorce wallowing.
Great. Just great. My self-help and courage is coming from a teen movie about a girl who finds out she’s royalty. Whatever. Princess Diaries wisdom, please don’t fail me now.
“Lark,” Brandon says as they approach, his tone dripping with fake pleasant surprise. “What a surprise seeing you here.”
“Brandon.” I keep my voice professionally neutral even though my jaw is already clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, possibly diamonds. Then, because I literally cannot avoid acknowledging her existence, “Kelly.”
“Hi, Lark,” Kelly says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She’s suddenly absolutely fascinated by her purse, adjusting the strap obsessively, fiddling with the clasp, doing anything possible to avoid making eye contact with me.
“It’s been so long, hasn’t it?” Brandon continues, settling himself onto a barstool like we’re old friends catching up over drinks instead of exes with a spectacularly messy history.
Kelly takes the seat directly beside him even though there are plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the bar. “What has it been now, two years?”
“About that.” I busy myself with wiping down the already spotless counter, giving my hands something productive to do besides curling into fists or reaching for something to throw.
“Time really does fly when you’re living your life,” he says, making himself comfortable, elbows claiming space on my bar.
This is exactly the kind of power play he loves—showing up in my territory, my workplace, acting like absolutely nothing happened between us, forcing me to perform customer service for him with a smile.
“So what can we get here? Still have that decent IPA on tap that you guys used to serve?”
“We have several different IPAs actually.” I keep my answers clipped and professional. The less I engage with him, the sooner this nightmare will be over.
“I’ll take whichever one you’d recommend then.” He gestures vaguely toward the taps. Then he adds without even glancing at Kelly beside him, “And she’ll have a pinot grigio.”
The casual way he orders for her without asking, without even looking at her, makes my skin absolutely crawl.
He used to do that exact same thing to me constantly when we were married.
Always ordering for me, deciding what I wanted before I could speak.
Back when I’d somehow convinced myself that I actually liked dirty martinis just because he kept insisting they were “my drink” and I was too young and unsure to push back.
It took months after the divorce to realize I hated them with an absolute passion.
I pour their drinks in deliberate silence, setting them down on the bar with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary.
The beer foam spills over the rim a bit, creating a small puddle that I don’t bother wiping up.
Brandon’s eye twitches at the mess, at my lack of immediate service, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Small victories where I can find them.
I’m desperately hoping they’ll drink quickly and leave. Take the hint. But Brandon’s never been particularly good at reading a room when he doesn’t want to, and he definitely doesn’t want to right now.
“So,” he says after taking his first sip, leaning back, “I guess I didn’t realize you were still working here at the Black Lantern. Still here after all these years.”
The way he emphasizes the word ‘still’ makes his meaning crystal clear—that I’m stuck, that I’m going nowhere with my life, that I’m a failure.
Like tending bar at a place I love is somehow less valid or important than his corporate construction job with its long hours and its empty promises of advancement.
“Yep, still here.” I grab a glass and start polishing it even though it’s already clean, focusing intently on making it shine rather than on the overwhelming urge to throw it directly at his smug face. “Steady job, good tips. All the boring adult stuff.”
I manage to keep my tone light and casual, like his opinion means absolutely nothing to me. Which it shouldn’t.
“Well, good for you then.” He takes another drink, and I can see him winding up for something worse, preparing his next attack. “I even heard through the grapevine that you’re still doing that music thing of yours. Posting videos online and whatnot.”
That music thing. Like I’m a child with a toy piano instead of an adult working seriously toward an actual career.
“That’s really… sweet,” he continues, and the condescension is dripping from absolutely every word like poison. “Still chasing that dream of yours. Not super realistic at this point in your life, but I do admire the persistence. The refusal to give up despite reality.”
What. The. F.
This is classic Brandon, absolutely classic. I spent literal years of my life trying to decipher these kind of mixed messages, constantly wondering if I was crazy for hearing the insult lurking beneath every compliment.
Kelly swirls her wine glass slowly, studying the way the liquid moves like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever witnessed.
“Speaking of life updates,” Brandon says, clearly enjoying himself now, “might as well address the elephant in the room here. Kelly and I are together now. Official.”
Like I haven’t seen their matching pictures on Instagram. Like I don’t know they went to Cabo together last Christmas and posted about it extensively. Like I care even remotely about either of them anymore.
“Yeah, I know. Saw it on social media a while back.” My customer service voice is failing me spectacularly right now.
Kelly’s face tightens noticeably. She takes a long, deliberate sip of wine, still carefully avoiding any eye contact with me whatsoever.
If she sinks any lower in her seat, she’ll be physically under the bar.
Good. She should feel uncomfortable. We met in high school and she was one of my closest friends besides Maren, at least until she decided my husband was a better option than our friendship.
“Right, well.” Brandon shifts in his seat, putting his hand over Kelly’s.
“I’m back in town for work now. Got a construction contract that’ll run through the summer.
Kelly’s doing the remote work thing so she can be here with me.
So we’ll definitely be around Dark River a lot.
Probably be seeing each other fairly regularly. ”
Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Just what Dark River needs for the summer—Brandon’s massive ego taking up valuable oxygen for months.
“Can’t wait.” My voice is so dry it could literally dehydrate a cactus, possibly start a small desert.
Brandon either completely misses the sarcasm or deliberately chooses to ignore it.
But Kelly catches it—she’s immediately back to memorizing every microscopic detail of her wine glass.
She’s always been fluent in subtext and unspoken communication.
It’s one of the reasons we were such close friends for so long.
Brandon leans forward, and I recognize that particular look immediately. That’s his checkmate expression. The one that says he’s been carefully saving his very best shot for last. He’s going for blood now. I can feel it coming. I brace myself for whatever’s about to hit.
“So what about you, Lark?” he asks, and his tone is so casual it’s obviously calculated.
“Are you seeing anyone these days? Dating? Or are you still too focused on the whole…” he makes this dismissive gesture with his fingers, like he’s physically flicking away something completely insignificant, “aspiring musician thing to make time for a relationship?”
And there it is. There’s the knife. The implication that my stupid, unrealistic music dreams are why I’m alone, why I’m undateable.
Not because I’m actually enjoying being single for the first time in my life.
Not because I’ve spent almost two years painstakingly rebuilding the self-esteem he systematically dismantled brick by brick during our marriage.
But standing up to Brandon has always felt like trying to argue with quicksand—the more you struggle against it, the deeper you sink.
Fuck. Say something. Anything. Don’t let him win this. I’m not that woman anymore, not the one who would shrink herself down to nothing just to keep the peace.
“Actually, yes,” I hear myself say before my brain has even remotely signed off on this decision. “I am seeing someone.”
The words are completely out of my mouth before I can stop them, before I can think. My brain catches up approximately half a second after my mouth makes this absolutely insane decision. What are you DOING? What the hell are you DOING?
Brandon’s beer pauses halfway to his mouth, frozen in surprise. Kelly looks up from her wine glass for the first time since she sat down, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
“Really?” Brandon’s voice is pure skepticism, disbelief dripping from the single word. “Who?”
Panic mode fully activated. Complete system malfunction. ABORT MISSION IMMEDIATELY.
Shit. Who? Think, Lark. Make up a name. Any name. Literally any name.
Ryan from high school? No, Brandon’s cousin works with him and would know immediately it’s a lie. Mike? Currently sulking over his pool game and would definitely contradict me. Tom from the hardware store? He’s literally sitting at a table with his wife right this second.