Chapter 1
DELLA
The morning light slices through my bedroom curtains like a passive-aggressive Post-it note from the universe.
I spent the night mentally scrapbooking every moment of our relationship, my brain a deranged Pinterest board of red flags I’d color-coded as romantic quirks.
By the time my alarm chimes—that obnoxious marimba that once made Jared throw my phone across the room—I’ve already been awake for hours, my eyes as dry and scratchy as the toast he always burns but insists is “European style.”
Jared mumbles something about “pancakes” in his sleep, his arm carelessly thrown across my pillow like a possessive octopus tentacle.
I slide out from under the covers with the stealth of a cat burglar, holding my breath when the ancient floorboard by my nightstand creaks.
I freeze and wait to ensure he doesn’t stir.
It’s better to let him sleep in his drool puddle.
He should dream of someone “better” while I mentally catalog which of his belongings will fit into those hideous neon gym duffels he refuses to replace.
I dress quietly in the bathroom, applying my makeup with the mechanical precision of a bomb technician—foundation, concealer, blush—each swipe of product another brick in today’s emotional fortress. My phone buzzes with a text from Liana, the screen lighting up with her contact photo:
Lunch today? The usual spot at 1? I’ll save you from the kale smoothie cult in accounting.
If only she knew. I text back, “Yes, please, rescue me,” and slip out of the apartment before Jared wakes, leaving him a note about an early meeting scribbled on the back of a CVS receipt, long enough to gift wrap a small elephant. Another lie to add to our collection.
The hours at work pass in a blur of fluorescent lighting and aggressive air conditioning that turns my office into Antarctica.
I smile through a client call with my “everything is fabulous” voice, present a marketing strategy with enthusiasm, and answer emails with the emotional range of a chatbot.
No one notices that behind my professional facade, my soul has gone on an extended coffee break.
By the time I reach Maison Verde, where the plants are somehow always suspiciously perfect (do they replace them nightly?), Liana is already seated at our corner table, two glasses of rosé waiting like liquid therapy.
The restaurant hums with the particular symphony of lunchtime conversation—half business jargon, half gossip, all performed at that precise volume that suggests importance without shouting.
Her face brightens when she spots me, sunshine breaking through clouds, then immediately darkens like someone just canceled Christmas.
“Holy shit, Della." Liana’s manicured fingers—today sporting a different shade on each nail like tiny mood rings—shoot across the table to grab mine. Her chunky turquoise bracelet clinks against the water glass. “Your face looks like someone replaced your moisturizer with Elmer’s glue.”
I take a theatrical gulp of wine, feeling it slide down my throat like liquid courage with notes of “screw him” and hints of “I’m done.” “He wasn’t sick. Unless PlayStation thumb counts as a medical condition."
“Shocker of the century,” she deadpans, adjusting the lopsided orchid centerpiece that’s leaning dangerously close to her salad bowl.
“He was playing Call of Duty with Henry—volume cranked high enough to wake the dead but apparently not high enough to drown out their little heart-to-heart.” I trace figure eights in the condensation on my glass, creating tiny rivers that race toward the table. “I became an accidental eavesdropper.”
Liana leans forward so dramatically that her statement necklace nearly dunks into her dressing, her kohl-rimmed eyes narrowing like a soap-opera villain about to discover who killed the butler. “Spill it. Every fucking syllable.”
The words taste bitter on my tongue, like I’ve been sucking on a penny I found in the laundry.
“That I’m ‘good for now.’ That he’s waiting for someone ‘better.’ Younger.
Hotter.” I laugh, the sound like a champagne cork popping at a funeral.
“Oh, and he loves my brownstone. Very convenient.
Apparently, my real estate portfolio is hotter than my ass. "
“That motherfucker.” Liana’s voice drips with the kind of venom that could make a cobra take notes. Her knuckles whiten around her fork until it resembles a tiny silver pitchfork ready for a demonic salad uprising. “Tell me you kicked him out last night and donated his Xbox to a retirement home.”
I stare at my untouched salad, where a cherry tomato stares back like a tiny red eyeball judging my life choices. “Not yet."
“What do you mean by ‘not yet’?” She sets down her glass with enough force that the wine sloshes dangerously close to the rim, performing a crimson high-wire act. “Della, you can’t possibly—“that the wine sloshes dangerously close to the rim. “Della, you can’t possibly—"
I’m going to pack his things and leave them outside,” I interrupt, the plan I’ve been fermenting all morning finally bubbling up like sourdough starter gone rogue.
“Everything he owns fits in two hideous neon duffel bags anyway. Seven years and the man has fewer possessions than a minimalist monk with a Marie Kondo obsession.”
Liana’s expression morphs from righteous fury to the calculating precision of a chess grandmaster who’s just spotted a devastating three-move checkmate.
“Change your locks, too. Today.” She wiggles her rainbow-tipped fingers.
“I know a guy who can do it within the hour—works for celebrities and paranoid tech bros.” She snatches her phone from beside her untouched bread basket.
“And a little birdie told me Felix is in town. Jared’s terrified of him ever since that Christmas party incident with the eggnog and the karaoke machine.
We should text him and have him come over tonight—”
"No.” I shake my head, nearly dislodging the hairpin that’s been stabbing my scalp since morning. “No, Felix."
“Why the hell not?” Liana’s bangles clatter like wind chimes in a hurricane as she gestures wildly.
“Your brother has hated Jared since he caught him using your credit card to make a beer run. Felix would love nothing more than to fold that human participation trophy into origami and mail him back to whatever discount dating app you found him on.”
I torture a piece of lettuce with my fork, stabbing it repeatedly like it personally betrayed me. "I’ll handle it my way. We’ve been together for seven years. I owe him at least—”
"You don’t owe him the lint between my toes.
" Liana’s voice ricochets through the restaurant like a pinball of rage, causing the man with the handlebar mustache three tables over to choke on his sparkling water.
She hunches forward, her statement necklace now dangling dangerously close to the balsamic puddle on her plate.
“Seven years of supporting his lazy ass while he plays video games in boxers with more holes than Swiss cheese and waits for someone ‘better’? Are you hearing yourself?”
The truth in her words stings like lemon juice in a paper cut, but something inside me—some final, fragile thread of denial that I’ve been clinging to like the last Twizzler in a movie theater—snaps with an almost audible twang.
“You’re right,” I whisper, then louder, my voice finding its backbone, “You’re right. "
“Damn straight I’m right.” She signals the waiter with the enthusiasm of an air traffic controller guiding in the last flight before a hurricane. “We need a bottle, not glasses. And the locksmith’s number. The kind who looks like he could break into Fort Knox with a paperclip.”
By the time we finish lunch—my salad mostly rearranged into abstract art, her plate clean as a whistle—I have a locksmith with a name like “Speedy Pete” scheduled for 3 PM and a clarity that feels like someone Windexed my brain.
I don’t owe Jared an explanation. I don’t owe him a gentle exit.
I owe myself the dignity of finally demanding what I deserve, gift-wrapped with a bow made of his gaming headset cord.
“What if he tries to claim some of your stuff?” Liana asks as we stand outside the restaurant in the afternoon sun.
I think of my velvet emerald sofa that Jared called “pretentious” but napped on daily like a pampered house cat, the hand-painted Italian pottery he used to store his disgusting protein powder.
“Let him try. I have receipts organized in color-coded folders that would make my accountant weep with joy.”
"And if he shows up drunk tonight? Or with those pathetic puppy eyes that somehow manage to look both vacant and manipulative, like a golden retriever plotting tax fraud? You know how men get when they realize they’re losing their human ATMs.”
The image flashes with HD clarity: Jared on my doorstep, clutching bodega flowers still wrapped in crinkly cellophane, promises tumbling from his lips like Skittles from a torn package.
But this time, the thought brings no ache, just the dull recognition you get when Netflix asks if you’re still watching a show you stopped caring about three episodes ago.
I’ll handle it,” I say, my voice steadier than a surgeon’s hands.
“Besides, I have you on speed dial—right between ‘Pizza Emergency’ and ‘Exorcist.’" I wiggle my phone.
“And maybe Felix could just happen to drop by later?
You know, purely coincidentally, armed with his hockey stick collection and that terrifying protein-shake growl? "
Liana’s smile unfurls like a cat stretching in sunlight—all teeth and satisfaction. “Now you’re cooking with gas, honey.” She hugs me with the ferocity of a koala that’s found its favorite eucalyptus tree. "You’re doing the right thing. You know that, right?”
Against her shoulder, which smells like expensive perfume and righteous vindication, I nod. “I know. I’ve known for years.” The truth has been hibernating inside me like a bear stuffed with denial sandwiches and what-if cookies.
As we part ways, my phone buzzes like an angry hornet trapped in my purse. Three missed calls from Jared and a text that reads:
Where are you? We could have dinner tonight.
The digital equivalent of a man who’d ask for a foot rub while the house was burning down.
For the first time in seven years, I don’t respond.
Instead, I call an Uber and watch the little car icon zigzag through digital streets like a caffeinated ant.
I head home to pack up the relationship trash—his novelty bottle opener shaped like a screaming mouth, the hideous plaid blanket that sheds more than a molting Saint Bernard.
By tonight, Speedy Pete’s locksmith magic will transform my apartment into Fort Knox with throw pillows, Jared’s possessions will be exiled to the curb like rejected Survivor contestants, and I’ll begin reclaiming what was always mine—my home, where I can finally hang that “Live, Laugh, Loathe” sign I’ve been hiding in my closet.
The thought brings not sadness but a helium-balloon lightness that makes me want to cartwheel down the sidewalk in my business casual.
Seven years of waiting for someone to choose me, when all along, I just needed to choose myself—preferably with the enthusiasm of a kid picking the biggest cookie in the jar.