8. Michelle
MICHELLE
Aweek passes in a blur of showings, follow-ups, and dead ends. Now it’s Friday night, and I’m standing in the middle of an impromptu office party. We’re all crammed into the main area with plastic cups of vodka punch. I’m driving, so it’s the virgin punch for me.
A banner that reads “Record Sales!” hangs crookedly from the ceiling.
Vinnie had a great week. I didn’t. Despite working overtime every night with late showings, several open houses, cold calls during lunch, I came up empty. He sold two apartments, a mid-level home, and closed on a whale. A twenty million dollar property.
Meanwhile, I didn’t close a single deal. Didn’t even win a new listing. Our gap keeps widening, and I can feel the weight of it sinking into my chest.
But I am happy for him. This is great for the agency. A win for one of us is a win for all of us. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I raise my cup along with everyone else and force myself to celebrate, even though it stings more than a little.
I remind myself I still have time. In this business, things can change fast. One good listing. One whale of my own. That’s all it takes.
I take a long sip, then refill my cup like that’ll do something.
With everyone loosened up by alcohol, they’re less guarded around me than usual. It’s rare, being included like this—no one overthinking what they say, no one putting on a show.
Emma’s tipsy and glowing as she gushes about a date she went on. She’s buzzing. So excited about this guy. The way he made her laugh, how he texted right after to say he had a great time. Her whole face lights up with that kind of bright, blinding hope that’s almost hard to look at.
The old warning rises in my throat. I want to tell her to slow down, to hold a little more back. They’re all charming at first, until they’re not. And the fall always hurts more than you expect.
I see the echo of my younger self in her smile.
The same one I wore before I knew better.
There’s a part of me that still aches from learning that lesson, a part that wants to protect her from it.
But I swallow the words. She doesn’t need my scars weighing down her light.
I should let her have this, for as long as it lasts.
So I tell her he sounds great, and she lights up even more, nodding like I’ve confirmed he’s the one.
“I thought maybe things were going somewhere with someone else, but…” she trails off, her voice dipping. She catches herself, like she’s said too much, and there’s a flicker of something raw in her expression. Sadness.
I know she's talking about Max.
He’s standing off to the side with Amanda, speaking low, his body tilted into hers.
One hand rests on a desk, the other just grazing her waist. He was doing the same to Emma just a few months ago.
The man’s a walking HR violation. But somehow, he keeps getting away with it.
Give it a few weeks, and he’ll be back to doing the same thing with Emma.
“Whoever it was. He’s clearly an idiot. There’s no shortage of those,” I say.
She smiles at that before drifting toward Evelyn, already halfway into another conversation. I watch her go, the polite mask on my face already fading. I want to go home. A glance around the room confirms it. The party’s peak has passed.
I slip down the hall to my office to grab my handbag. I leave the door open, planning to be gone in seconds but as I reach it, Amanda appears in the doorway.
“Do you have a second?” she asks.
My brain jumps to the obvious. This is it. She’s going to say something about Max. A formal complaint. Finally.
But she closes the door and leans against it.
“I saw Jason and Elise again,” she says. Her voice is a little loose from the vodka, but her eyes are wide, dead serious. “It’s a girl.”
She leans in like she’s sharing gossip, but her face says otherwise. There’s this awful, earnest sympathy in her expression that makes my stomach tighten.
“They had baby stuff with them. A whole cart full. Lots of pink.”
She gives me a tight smile. It’s meant to be kind, but it feels like someone’s just thrown a rock at my chest.
“I thought you might want to know,” she adds, like she’s doing her civic duty.
“I don’t,” I say. Sharper than I mean to. “I’m not interested. Okay?”
Her smile falters. A flicker of alarm crosses her face. She nods, once then practically bolts out the door.
I leave quickly, muttering goodbyes. It’s only when I get in the car that the weight of it hits.
It shouldn’t bother me. It’s been—what—five years? Six? And the whole thing is such a tired cliché: the fiancé and the best friend, married in a rush like they had something to prove. As if their betrayal was fate. Meant to be. Just ignore the collateral damage.
I could have gotten over it if it was just him.
If he’d run off with a stranger. But Elise?
I didn’t see that coming. Never would have picked it.
We were friends since middle school. She helped me pick my wedding dress.
Let me put the deposit down on the venue.
And the whole time, she was sleeping with him.
How do you ever trust someone after that?
The pressure in my chest tightens, a hard knot behind my ribs. I grip the steering wheel and try to breathe through it.
Now they’re having a daughter. Their happy little family. And I’m here, still damaged. Still can’t even think about trusting anyone without feeling like I’m setting myself up to be broken again.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. I can’t deal with this right now. There’s too much going on. I need to focus on work.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Josh’s name. He still hasn’t replied.
I press call. It rings once, twice, then clicks over to voicemail. I hang up and drop the phone into my lap. Officially ghosted. It shouldn’t matter. He was just a temporary distraction. But tonight, I can’t do silence but I can’t do a crowd either.
If Josh isn’t going to help me forget...
My thumb hovers over the screen, then scrolls to Dean’s name. His text thread stares back at me. Messages every day this week.
Dean: Thinking about you.
Dean: Passed one of your signs today. Almost crashed my car.
Dean: I made it through a whole day without texting you. Barely.
Dean: You ever going to let me take you to dinner?
Dean: Still thinking about you. Let me know when you’re ready to stop pretending you’re not thinking about me too.
And then one from tonight.
Dean: I’m at Aura tonight.
I stare at the message. I shouldn’t go. I know that, even as I keep looking at the screen.
But he knew exactly what to do. I didn’t have to guide him.
I didn’t have to pretend I cared. I didn’t have to make myself softer or more likable.
With Dean, I don’t have to put on an act.
I can be my tired, blunt, not-especially-likable self, and he doesn’t flinch. Not yet, anyway.
Right now, I need everything to stop for a while. My thoughts, the ache under my ribs, the dull edge of disappointment that won’t let up.
I reach for my keys and start the car.