5. Betsy
BETSY
T he dust from the storage box tickles my nose as I rummage through years of forgotten possessions, hunting for my lucky bowling shoes. They have to be here somewhere.
“You’re going to knock his socks off,” Liana’s voice purrs through my phone speaker. “Who invites their architect out for bowling? I think it’s a bit endearing. He’s testing the waters.”
I roll my eyes, though my stomach does a little flip at the thought. “It’s just bowling with the potential client who might give me the biggest contract of the year. Nothing more.” My fingers brush against something smooth and cool—my cobalt blue bowling ball, still nestled in its bag. “Found it!"
“The ball or your courage?” Liana laughs. “Because you’ll need both when you see him tonight.”
"Very funny.” I pull the ball free, wiping away a layer of dust to reveal the swirling pattern beneath.
The weight feels familiar in my hands, a reminder of simpler days during my internship when Friday nights meant nothing more complicated than strikes, spares, and cheap beer with fellow architects and engineers.
“Betsy, honey, I looked him up. The man is gorgeous, successful, and clearly interested. And unlike certain other men we know, he actually seems emotionally available."
“Devon isn’t emotionally unavailable,” I say automatically, then wince. “I mean?—"
“Ha! I didn’t even mention his name, and there you go defending him.” Her voice softens. “It’s been three days since you replied to his bullshit. Has he called?”
I sigh, sitting back on my heels. “Twelve times. Twenty-three texts."
“And you haven’t answered because...?”
"Because I’m tired of the same old pattern. We fight, I leave, he chases, I give in, nothing changes.” I spot a flash of red leather under an old sweater. “Found my shoes!”
The doorbell rang, its chime reverberating through my apartment.
“Someone’s at the door. Probably Mrs. Finch wanting to borrow another smutty book,” I say, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I gathered my bowling gear.
“Last week I lent her ‘The Duke’s Forbidden Desire’ and now she’s texting me at midnight with exclamation points about the carriage scene.
The woman’s seventy-three and just discovered sex scenes. ”
"Go answer it. And Betsy? Remember what we talked about. You deserve someone who knows what he wants.”
"Yeah, yeah.” I pad barefoot down the stairs, the cool hardwood a relief against my skin in the late Sunday afternoon heat.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time .
“Coming!” I call, annoyed at the impatience. I detour to the front window, pulling back the gauzy curtain to see who was so desperate for my attention.
My heart stutters. Devon stands on my porch, one hand poised to ring the bell again, the other clutching a bouquet of stargazer lilies—my favorite. His blue eyes lock with mine through the glass, his expression a complicated mix of determination and vulnerability that makes my chest ache.
“Betsy? Who is it?” Liana’s tiny voice comes from the phone I’d forgotten was still in my hand.
“It’s him,” I whisper, unable to look away from Devon’s gaze. “He’s here.”
“Don’t you dare open that door,” Liana warns.
But my hand is already reaching for the knob, my body betraying my better judgment as it has so many times before. I open the door, but only a few inches—the security chain drawn taut like my resolve.
“Betsy,” Devon breathes, his face lighting up. “Finally.”
The familiar scent of his cologne wafts through the gap, stirring memories I’m trying to forget. I keep my expression neutral, though my heart hammers against my ribs. “I’m getting ready to leave, Devon. You need to go.”
He thrusts the lilies toward the narrow opening. “I got your favorites. Can we talk? Just for a minute?"
“I really don’t have time.” I glance pointedly at my watch. “I have plans tonight.”
His expression hardens, jaw tightening in that way I know too well. "You’ve been ignoring me for days. I deserve an explanation."
“I don’t owe you an explanation.” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don’t take them back. "I’ve been busy. And honestly, not interested in talking."
“Not interested?” His voice rises. “After everything we’ve been through? You can’t just?—"
“I can, actually.” I cut him off, feeling a strange power in the words. "That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Devon runs his hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that used to make me want to smooth it back into place. “Let me in. We can talk about this.”
“I told you, I’m going out tonight.” The bowling bag feels heavy in my hand, a reminder of the evening ahead—an evening without Devon’s drama. “I don’t have time to chit chat."
“With who?” His eyes narrow, focusing on the bowling bag. “Is that what this is about? You’re seeing someone else?"
“This isn’t about anyone,” I sigh, fatigue settling in my bones. “Or rather, the fact that there is no us."
“I don’t understand what I did wrong.” His voice drops, taking on that wounded tone that used to send me scrambling to make things right. “Just tell me what I did.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Stop being dramatic.” The words feel deliciously satisfying, throwing his own frequent criticism back at him. "Isn’t that what you always tell me when I’m upset?”
His mouth opens, then closes, genuine surprise flickering across his features.
“I’ll call you later,” I say, knowing I probably won’t. “I need to finish getting ready.”
Before he can respond, I close the door, sliding the deadbolt into place with a definitive click .
I lean against the door, waiting for the doorbell to ring again, for his fist to pound against the wood. But there’s only silence, followed by the soft sound of retreating footsteps.
“Betsy? Are you still there?" Liana’s voice reminds me that I still have my phone in my hand.
“I did it,” I whisper, a strange mix of emptiness and exhilaration flowing through me. “I actually sent him away.”
"About damn time,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Now go knock ’em dead tonight. The bowling alley awaits.”
I glance at my watch. I have forty-five minutes to shower, change, and drive across town. Just enough time if I hurry. But for a moment, I stand still, savoring the unfamiliar sensation of choosing myself over Devon’s needs.
It feels like the first strike in a game I might actually win.