Chapter 5
Darby
I’m going with Blake to a football-watching party, and I haven’t been out in a social situation with a group in over two months.
Two months of couch, coffee, and the occasional pity hangout where someone brought ice cream and carefully didn’t mention my ex’s name.
I’m not sure if I remember how to act, dress, or even have a conversation that isn’t about streaming shows, my job, or how my life fell apart.
My stomach does this little swoop every time I think about walking into a room full of people who haven’t seen me since “before.”
Before the breakup. Before I started sleeping on my ex’s couch. Before I showed up on Blake’s doorstep with my stuff shoved in trash bags and puffy eyes and the kind of shame you can’t pack neatly.
Bristol never liked him, something she never bothered to hide. It took a toll on our friendship. I take responsibility for that. I was jealous, I know that now. But at the time I would have said she was gloating about her newlywed bliss and acting superior.
It’s no wonder I question my judgment now.
I hate that I’m so insecure lately. Logically, I know my ex fucked with my head.
And my heart. I can say the words out loud now: emotional manipulation, cheating, gaslighting.
I can list the warning signs like I’m reading from a brochure.
But that didn’t stop his words from penetrating deep into my psyche and setting up camp.
It’s like he spray-painted graffiti on all my mirrors, and even when I wipe them down, there’s still a shadow of what he wrote: too much, too loud, not worth staying for.
I tried to make it work with him, harder than I’ve ever worked at anything before.
I treated our relationship like a group project where I was the only one doing the homework and he still expected an A.
Every time he pulled away, I reached harder.
Every time he criticized something, I twisted myself into a new shape to fix it.
If I loved him correctly, if I cooked better, dressed a little differently, didn’t nag him about coming home so late, maybe he’d remember why he picked me in the first place.
But it was clear after a while that I wasn’t successful. The more I tried, the more it felt like he was just collecting proof that I’d never be enough. Then he cheated.
Er, I discovered him cheating.
Important distinction.
He claimed it was the first time, but I have my doubts looking back—the weird late nights, the sudden showers when he got home, the way his phone might as well have been surgically attached to his hand.
Still, I’m convinced we had love for one another in the beginning.
We must have. I’m not a good enough actress to fake those early months.
It was just a love that turned toxic the longer we stayed together, like food left out on the counter too long.
By the time I noticed the smell, it was already rotten.
Anymore, most of my friends are married and already have kids or are pregnant.
Group chats that used to be about weekend plans and bad dates are now full of baby pics, daycare recommendations, and horror stories about first-trimester nausea.
What used to feel like I had the upper hand in still being single with nothing tying me down—free to travel, move, say yes to last-minute plans—now feels like I’m the odd one out who can’t relate to any of the things my friends are experiencing.
I wanted to fit in, and moving in with my ex seemed like the first step to that.
He was my “we.” My proof that I was on track, that I wasn’t getting left behind.
Everyone else had couples’ selfies and mortgage payments; I had shared rent and dresser drawers that weren’t technically mine but held my stuff. It felt like progress.
Now, I’m back to square one. Maybe even square zero if such a thing exists, because I don’t know how to get myself off the “Go Backs” shelf and onto the one that guys shop at first. The words he used that night—after I caught him, after the crying, after the world tilted—still ring in my ears.
You’re the kind of girl guys take home until they find what they really want.
I smooth my hands down the front of my outfit like I can press those thoughts out of the fabric.
I’m dressed in a light-blue, short-sleeved romper that’s shirred and fitted on the top with tiered, flowy layers on the bottom, which make it look more like a dress than shorts.
It shows a hint of cleavage and a lot of leg, but the color is soft and sweet, like maybe I’m still that version of me who believed good things could just…
happen. The elastic at the waist gives me shape without cutting in, and the flutter of the hem makes me feel like I could twirl if the right song came on.
Shoes are a no-brainer. I’m a Dr. Martens fiend and love pairing combat-style boots with feminine-looking clothing.
The combination makes me feel fierce but still sexy, like I’m saying, “Yes, I will wear ruffles, but I can also kick you in the balls if you deserve it.” The boots are scuffed just enough to prove they’ve seen some things. Kind of like me.
I fuss with my hair in the mirror, debating ponytail vs.
down vs. half-up, like the angle of my bangs is going to determine whether I can hold a conversation about football and not accidentally bring up relationship trauma.
I settle on loose waves and a couple of pieces pinned back, hoping it says I tried, but not too hard.
I’m just surveying myself in the full-length mirror, trying to decide if I look like someone who belongs at a casual hangout and not like someone who just crawled out of the wreckage of her last relationship, when Blake knocks on my door.
“Hey, Darbs,” he calls. His voice is warm through the wood. “You decent?”
Not usually, I think, but say, “Yeah, come on in.”
There’s a tiny pause, like he’s giving me one last second to change my mind, and then the door swings open.
His large body fills my doorway, and wow, he’s beautiful. I mean, I’ve always known Blake was attractive—objectively, casually—but lately it feels like someone turned up the resolution on him and I’m seeing details I missed before. How did I never notice his smile before?
It’s gorgeous. One second he’s all sharp angles and quiet intensity, the next he’s sunlight and dimples and that little crinkle at the corners of his eyes that tells me the smile is real, not something he’s putting on for effect.
His well-worn jeans are just snug enough on his hips and thighs to show everything to its best advantage.
The denim hugs the curve of his quads, hinting at the strength I’ve seen on morning runs and when he lifts heavy boxes like they’re nothing.
I wish I could see his butt in them at the same time, but alas, physics.
I make a note to walk behind him on the way to the car.
For…science.
A vintage concert T-shirt stretches tight across his chest and biceps; the faded logo warped just enough by muscle that I have to squint to read it.
I can practically see the ridges of his muscles outlined in the cotton, the way the sleeves grip his arms like they’re barely hanging on.
The soft, worn fabric looks like it would feel incredible under my palms.
And he’s looking at me like he’s starving, and I’m the meal.
The air shifts between us, thickening. For a second, all the noise in my head—Go Backs shelf, not enough, too much, too late—goes blessedly silent. It’s just his eyes traveling slowly from my boots to the hem of my romper to the neckline, then back up to my face like he’s committing me to memory.
Heat crawls up my chest, but it’s not the panicked, exposed kind I’m used to. It’s something else. Something that feels suspiciously like being seen and liked for what he sees.
I feel emboldened by the look on his face, like I’ve stepped off the clearance rack and onto a display table for a second.
Any insecurity I may have felt a minute ago doesn’t disappear completely—those scars are deeper than one look can fix—but it does quiet down enough that I can breathe without second-guessing every exhale.
Maybe I don’t remember exactly how to act in a room full of people. Maybe I’ll say something awkward or laugh too loud or forget the name of a player everyone else knows. But right now, with Blake’s gaze on me like this, I feel a tiny, reckless spark of possibility.
Like going with him won’t be a mistake after all.