Grand Romantic Coup #4
And worst of all, this was the version of Peter I’d gotten when he was still pretending to be on his best behavior.
The “honeymoon phase” was less a period of mutual infatuation than a series of gradual reality checks, each one a little less thrilling than the last. Eventually, his inability to listen, to empathize, to see beyond his own reflection, wore me down so thoroughly that it felt like there was nothing left to lose by breaking things off.
Which I’d wanted to do for weeks before I’d even arrived in Valentine Bay.
So when he appeared in the middle of a small-town festival, unannounced and wholly uninvited, it was less a romantic gesture and more a testament to Peter’s singular superpower: his absolute, unshakeable conviction that the rules of normal human interaction did not apply to him.
He’d texted me, sure, but when I hadn’t responded, he’d simply booked a flight and shown up, confident that his presence alone would be enough to smooth things over.
As I stood next to Peter’s crisp white shirt and glitzy watch, I realized that the only thing we’d ever really had in common was a shared allergy to boredom.
He was a man in perpetual motion, and I’d been drifting, looking for a distraction.
On paper, Peter was perfect: a checklist of desirable attributes, each one more impressive than the last, but on the inside, something essential was missing—a softness, an understanding, maybe even a soul.
I glanced at him, at the way he scanned the crowd with smug satisfaction, certain that he’d just pulled off a grand romantic coup.
I thought about all the times I’d let myself believe that being with someone “good enough” was preferable to being alone.
About all the little ways I’d shrunk myself to fit inside the lines of his life, how I’d learned to pretend that his dismissiveness was just a quirk rather than a warning sign.
In the end, my relationship with Peter was less a romance and more of a placeholder, a way to pass the time until I could figure out what I actually wanted.
The wild thing was, I didn’t even feel sad about it anymore. I felt…nothing. Just the faintest flicker of relief, like the moment you realize a dental procedure is over and you survived without screaming.
“Peter, we’re not together anymore. I broke up with you.” The words spilled out faster than I could reel them in.
Peter’s eyes went wide, then narrowed, calculating. “Whoa…Sadie, wait. What? Where is this coming from?”
I could feel the noise and color of the festival blurring around us, like the whole world was rubbernecking our disaster, even though I knew that was all in my head and no one was paying attention. “It’s been over,” I said, softer but no less sure. “I’ve told you that.”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice to the kind of pitch reserved for high-stakes negotiations. “I flew all the way here to see you. You can’t just pretend what we had meant nothing?”
He said it like I’d just tipped over a Monopoly board because I was losing, not because I’d finally realized the game itself was boring and I was over it. “I’m not pretending, Peter.”
“Come on, Sadie. This is just that self-sabotage thing again. Every time we get close, you freak out.”
I surprised myself by not flinching. “No. Every time we get close, you steamroll me, and then act shocked when I don’t want to spend my life being an accessory to your ego.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, seemed to process, then shifted tactics.
“Okay, look. I get it. You’re stressed, you’re processing some stuff from your hometown, you’re—” He made a vague, flapping gesture that somehow encompassed all of Valentine Bay and, presumably, my entire personality.
“But don’t you think you’re overreacting? ”
I looked at him—really looked at him—and realized he was incapable of seeing what I meant. Not because he was evil or even particularly obtuse, but because he’d never built that muscle. Some people were born with an extra sense for empathy; Peter had a blind spot the size of Manhattan.
“It’s over, Peter,” I said with finality.
He stared at me, stunned, then recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
He let the silence balloon between us, searching my face for some sign that I was joking, or would back down, or would let him talk me out of it like every other time.
When he didn’t find what he wanted, he huffed out a breath, straightened his cuffs, and said, “You know, most people would kill for what we had.”
I didn’t bother replying. I just watched as he turned on his heel and stalked off into the crowd, shoulders squared, already reconstructing the story of tonight so he’d be the wronged party.
It was almost comical, how abruptly the noise of the fair filled the space he left behind. I exhaled. I may not have my entire life figured out, but at least that chapter was now closed, and I was ready to write the next one. And what better place to do that than at the bachelor auction?