1. Athena
ATHENA
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
Boston in October has a way of projecting a romance vibe while quietly ruining your life. Every time I inhale, I’m hit by the scents of roasted chestnuts and car exhaust.
The sidewalks are crowded with people in scarves they absolutely do not need yet, and the leaves along Commonwealth Avenue turn just enough shades of red to make tourists believe this city is softer than it really is.
Right now it’s also trying to kill my feet.
I shift the weight of two takeout bags in one hand while digging my apartment key out of my coat pocket with the other, and I swear under my breath because the plastic handles are cutting into my fingers and the Thai place downstairs insisted on triple-bagging everything like they were packaging plutonium.
“Totally worth it,” I mutter to nobody.
The smell drifting from the bags is excellent.
Pad see ew, basil chicken, spring rolls, and the mango sticky rice that I absolutely did not need but purchased anyway because I just survived sixteen hours inside Hawthorne Children’s & Trauma Medical Center and that earns a person dessert.
My phone buzzes in my pocket while I balance the bags against my hip and finally manage to get the key into the lock.
I already know it’s my boyfriend Nate.
He texted earlier to say he might be home late because of a donor event at the hospital foundation, which makes sense because Nathan Clarke Jr. is the king of donor events.
He lives in the soft glow of networking cocktails and polite applause, and if there is a wealthy benefactor within a fifty-mile radius he will find them and charm them into writing a check.
It’s honestly impressive.
It’s also why I assumed he wouldn’t be home when I texted that I was grabbing dinner and calling it early from work. I push the apartment door open with my shoulder and step inside.
Warm air greets me immediately.
So does the faint scent of my vanilla candle, which is weird because I definitely blew it out this morning before leaving for my shift.
“Honey?” I call, wondering if Nathan had a change of plans.
My voice echoes lightly down the short hallway.
No answer.
I kick the door closed behind me and drop my tote bag onto the small entry table while trying not to spill dinner all over the floor.
“Okay,” I say to the empty apartment. “It’s just us.”
The place is small but bright, the kind of Boston apartment that only exists because the building used to be something else entirely and the landlord decided that turning old offices into studios was a brilliant business strategy.
The living room is a mix of IKEA furniture and art supplies that I pretend are temporary but have been slowly taking over the space for months.
Sketchbooks sit in a loose pile beside the couch. Colored pencils spill out of a ceramic mug. A half-finished illustration of a dragon wearing reading glasses rests on the coffee table.
My mother would have opinions about the mess.
She has opinions about most things.
I kick off my shoes and stretch my toes against the hardwood floor while the feeling slowly returns to them.
Child Life Specialists do not technically run marathons during their shifts, but we do spend a lot of time moving between rooms and crouching beside hospital beds while explaining complicated medical procedures using puppets and very creative storytelling.
Today included a five-year-old who believed the MRI machine was secretly a time portal and a ten-year-old who tried to bribe me with a cookie to delay his surgery. Honestly, I respected the hustle.
“Food delivery has arrived,” I announce to the empty apartment while heading toward the kitchen.
The smell of Thai food fills the room as soon as I set the bags on the counter and start unpacking containers while mentally calculating how quickly I can shower before the noodles get cold.
I reach into the drawer and grab two forks out of habit, then pause halfway through the motion and laugh quietly to myself. Right.
Nathan’s not home, which means the mango sticky rice now belongs entirely to me.
I set the extra fork back in the drawer and lean against the counter for a second while rolling my shoulders, because hospitals have a way of settling into your muscles long after you leave.
Then I notice something small.
The hallway light is on, and that makes me frown because I distinctly remember switching it off before I left this morning. “Huh.”
It’s not exactly suspicious, but it is strange enough that I glance down the hallway while picking up one of the takeout containers.
The bedroom door is open. I remember closing it after grabbing my sweater from the chair this morning, and I even remember thinking I should probably clean the room at some point before guests see it.
“Did the cleaning fairy stop by?” I call lightly.
No answer.
I walk a few steps forward while balancing the container in one hand. The bedroom light is on.
I know I didn’t leave it on. I slow down as I approach the doorway, because something about the room feels wrong even before my brain fully registers what I’m looking at.
The bed is messy, sheets twisted, blanket halfway on the floor, which is strange, because I made the bed this morning in a brief burst of adult responsibility.
Then my eyes move toward the center of the mattress, and the scene rearranges itself into something my brain finally understands.
Nate… Nathan Jr… my boyfriend.
Shirtless. Very awake. Very much not alone.
Because the woman tangled in my sheets beside him is Lila. My best friend.
For one second nobody moves, and the room feels oddly quiet even though my heart is suddenly pounding hard enough to drown out everything else. Nathan’s eyes widen like he’s surprised I exist, and Lila jerks the blanket up to her chest like modesty suddenly matters.
The silence stretches just long enough to become unbearable.
“Well,” I say, because apparently sarcasm is the only survival instinct my brain has left. “This seems like a productive use of my bedding.”
Nate pushes himself upright immediately, and the sheet slides down his waist while he scrubs a hand through his hair like that will somehow reset the situation. Lila doesn’t speak. She just watches me with a tight expression.
“You’re home early,” Nate says, in a surprisingly jaunty tone. I’m almost impressed at his ability to hold his shit together when I’m losing mine.
I stare at him.
“I texted you three hours ago that I was coming home early,” I reply in a high voice I immediately hate. “So if you weren’t too busy shagging my best friend to read it, you’d know we’re right on schedule.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he sets his lips into that thin line that tells me he’s about to make a lot of excuses for what he’s just done. “Look, Athena—”
“No,” I say quickly. “Actually you look.”
I gesture toward the hallway. “I bought dinner, for both of us. Which feels very on brand for this evening.”
Lila finally speaks. “Athena, I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.
” The sound of her voice snaps something tight in my chest. I was the one who introduced them, back when she made a very theatrical speech about how my boyfriend would have to clear several moral and intellectual hurdles before she’d consider him worthy of me.
I huff out a laugh. “Oh good,” I say. “So there was a better way planned.”
Nate swings his legs off the bed and stands up, completely unconcerned about the fact that he’s still half naked. His expression shifts from uncomfortable to defensive in about three seconds. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
I cock my head at him and glance pointedly downward. “You’re in my bed,” I say. “With my best friend. I’m honestly amazed you managed to satisfy her with that, because you’ve never exactly been known for your commitment to foreplay.”
It’s mean, but it still feels like restraint considering I wasted years on this man. Years of never finishing, years of lying there thinking maybe next time would be different, years of discovering that his definition of romance was finishing first and congratulating himself.
Lila blushes bright red. Nate just blinks at me like a confused goldfish. “It just happened.”
“Did gravity also happen, or did you both actively participate in the decision-making process?”
Lila winces.
Nate’s mouth twists into something annoyed, and suddenly the man who has been charming donors and shaking hands at hospital galas all year disappears. The person standing in front of me now looks irritated that I’ve interrupted his evening. “You’re overreacting.”
That sentence lands like gasoline on an open flame.
“Overreacting.” I ball my hands into fists to keep myself from charging forward and slapping him.
“Yes,” he says sharply. “You’re making this dramatic.”
My hands start shaking, and I curl them into fists before he can see it. “You’re in the bed I bought for the two of us with my best friend, and you have the fucking nerve to call this dramatic?”
“You and I have had problems for months,” he shoots back. “You’re never home, you’re always working late, and when you are here you’re exhausted.”
I stare at him. “I work at a trauma hospital.”
“Exactly.”
There’s that tone that says he’s been building this argument in his head for a while. “And honestly,” Nathan continues, voice rising slightly, “maybe if you took better care of yourself we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
The words hit hard enough that I actually feel the impact in my stomach. “What does that mean?”
He flaps his hand vaguely at my body. “You know what it means.”
I feel something inside my chest collapse inward like a building losing its foundation. “Say it,” I whisper.
Nate rolls his eyes. “If you maintained yourself, maybe I wouldn’t have needed to look somewhere else.”
The room goes very still. Those words slide straight past my ears and bury themselves somewhere deeper, right into the collection of old wounds I carry around like luggage I never asked for.
My mother’s voice rises instantly in my head.
You’d be so pretty if you just lost ten pounds.
Men notice these things.