Chapter 2 #3
I look at him—really look at him—and try to find the guy I used to know.
The one who snuck me into his family's box at Madison Square Garden when we were nineteen.
The one who stayed up all night helping me study for constitutional law finals.
The one who stood beside me when Caroline's lies blew up my life and told me I deserved better than someone who saw me as a paycheck.
He's not there anymore.
Maybe he never was. Maybe I just chose not to see what was always right in front of me.
"We're good," I say finally, because what else is there to say? This is how Blake's world works. This is how my world works. You smile. You nod. You keep your mouth shut and your eyes forward and your conscience locked away somewhere it can't cause problems.
"I knew you'd get it," Blake says, relief flooding his voice like I just saved him from drowning. "You always do. That's why you're my groomsman. That's why we're still friends after all these years."
He claps me on the shoulder—possessive, claiming, the way you'd mark territory—and heads for the door.
"I should get back," he says. "People will start wondering where I've been."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone in the alcove with the scent of expensive perfume and the weight of what I just agreed to.
The club is suffocating. The bass is too loud. The air is too thick. The smell of Blake’s cologne and ambition and carefully maintained lies presses down on me like a physical weight.
I need to leave.
Now.
I don't stop to say goodbye to anyone. Don't acknowledge the blonde who's moved on to younger prospects. Don't wave at the finance bros who are still arguing about markets they'll never actually trade in.
I just walk away.
Outside, January in Manhattan hits like a slap.
Cold. Clean. Real in a way that cuts through the artificial atmosphere of the club like a knife through silk.
I start walking without direction, just needing to move. Needing to feel my feet against pavement. Needing to remember what it's like to exist without an audience or an agenda or a role to play.
My phone buzzes against my chest. Blake, probably. Making sure I'm not having second thoughts. Making sure his groomsman is still on board.
Everyone wants something from me.
Blake sees loyalty he can purchase and complicity he can depend on.
The finance bros see celebrity and access and the ability to tell their friends they drank with a professional athlete.
Even the blonde back at the club saw opportunity wrapped in expensive clothes and the right kind of name.
None of them see me.
None of them want to.
I could walk away from all of it.
The thought comes unbidden, clear as the cold air burning in my lungs.
I could ignore the wedding invitation. Turn off my phone.
Let Blake's disaster play out without my participation or protection.
I could retire early. Disappear into whatever life people build when they stop caring about expectations and obligations and the careful maintenance of other people's comfortable lies.
But I won't.
Because this is what I do. This is what I've always done.
Show up. Play the part. Protect the people in my circle even when they don't deserve it, even when it makes me complicit in their failures and betrayals.
I stop on a corner, watching my breath fog in the cold air, and pull out my phone.
The wedding details are already loaded. I've looked at them a dozen times, like checking a wound to see if it still hurts.
Cap Juluca Resort, Anguilla.
Welcome events begin January 24.
Wedding ceremony January 31.
January 24. Tomorrow.
I fly out tomorrow morning.
A full week of performing the role of supportive groomsman while watching Blake destroy a woman who doesn't deserve it.
A full week of my mother and Aunt Milly parading "suitable matches" in front of me like I'm a prize stallion at auction, my value measured in bloodline and professional connections instead of anything resembling actual humanity.
A full week of pretending my career isn't ending. That my life isn't being funneled into a boardroom I never wanted. That I'm fine with all of it.
I flag down a cab and slide into the back seat, giving the driver my address in a voice that sounds normal. Steady. Like I didn't just promise to stand beside someone while they commit systematic betrayal.
As we pull away from the curb, I glance back at the club. The glowing sign. The velvet ropes. The people laughing and drinking and pretending their lives are what they want them to be.
Blake is in there somewhere, probably back with the finance bros by now. Telling stories. Making jokes. Playing the part of the excited groom while the wedding planner he just had his hand inside waits for him somewhere else in the building.
And I just promised not to stop him.
The Olympic rejection doesn't sting anymore. It's been replaced by something deeper. Something that sits heavier in my chest. The growing awareness that some competitions are lost before you even know you're playing them.
But not this one. Not yet.
Eight days to the wedding.
Eight days until I find out if I still have a spine, or if I’ve just been letting myself play the role everyone expects of me.
One way or another, there's going to be a collision at that wedding.
Either I destroy Blake by exposing him, or I destroy myself by standing there and doing nothing.