Echoes of Regret

The restaurant buzzed with the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware, a cozy spot in the West Village with exposed brick walls and soft jazz playing in the background. Snow flurries danced outside the windows, blanketing the streets in white, but inside, the air was warm, scented with garlic and fresh bread. It had been two days since I called off the wedding for the sixth time, vendors notified, deposits lost, and my heart numb from the repetition. Marcus hadn’t come home that night, and I hadn’t chased him. Instead, I’d thrown myself deeper into Rossi Designs, sketching until dawn, the “Fractured Hearts” line now a full collection ready for Damien’s gallery showcase. He’d insisted on dinner tonight, “to cheer you up,” he said, and I’d agreed, needing something normal after the chaos.

We sat at a corner table, menus open, a bottle of cabernet between us. Damien looked relaxed in his button-down shirt, his hazel eyes catching the candlelight as he scanned the appetizers. I forced a smile, stirring my water with a straw, trying to shake the weight pressing on my chest.

“So, how’s the gallery doing?” I asked, steering the talk to safe ground. “Any big sales lately?”

Damien leaned back, grinning. “Decent. Sold a few pieces from that abstract artist last week. But honestly, your line’s the one everyone’s buzzing about. The ‘Fractured Hearts’ stuff—it’s got edge. People connect with it.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said, feeling a small spark of pride. “I’ve been working on a new necklace—split ruby with gold veins. It’s therapeutic, you know? Keeps my mind off... everything.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah, I get that. Work’s been my escape too. Remember that expansion I mentioned? I’m scouting locations in Brooklyn. Cheaper rent, more space for events.”

“Brooklyn?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a big move. You’d kill it there—hipster crowd loves galleries.”

He chuckled, pouring more wine. “Exactly. And you? Besides the designs, what’s new? Any trips planned, or just burying yourself in the studio?”

I shrugged, glancing at the menu. “Studio mostly. Lila’s been pushing me to join her yoga class, but I’m not ready for that level of zen yet.”

“Yoga with Lila?” Damien laughed, shaking his head. “That woman turns relaxation into a competition. Remember college? She’d out-downward-dog everyone.”

I smiled, the memory easing some tension. “Yeah, she’s intense. But good intense. Keeps me grounded.”

The waiter came, and we ordered—pasta for me, steak for him. As we waited, Damien’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Elena, about the wedding... have you decided what’s next with Marcus? I mean, after calling it off again.”

I stiffened, the question hitting like a punch. I set my glass down, forcing a casual tone. “Let’s not go there tonight. Tell me more about Brooklyn. Any specific spots you’re eyeing?”

He paused, reading my deflection, but nodded. “Okay. There’s this warehouse near Bushwick—raw space, high ceilings. I could host pop-ups, maybe even your showcase there.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, latching onto the topic. “You could theme it around urban grit. Pair my jewelry with street art.”

“Smart,” he said, warming to the idea. “We could collaborate more. Your designs, my space—make it a thing.”

We talked shop for a while, the conversation flowing easy, like old times. Damien shared stories from college friends we both knew—Mike’s new job in tech, Sarah’s move to LA. “Life moves fast,” he said, twirling his fork. “One day you’re debating Shakespeare, next you’re building empires.”

“Or watching them crumble,” I muttered, then caught myself. “Anyway, what about your family? Your sister still in Chicago?”

“Yeah, still teaching,” he said, smiling. “She’s got two kids now. Asks about you sometimes.”

“Tell her hi,” I said, genuine warmth creeping in. But then he circled back, gentle but persistent.

“Elena, seriously—about Marcus. You can’t just bury this. What are you thinking? Ending it for good?”

I sighed, tracing the rim of my glass. “Damien, please. Not tonight. Let’s talk about something else. Like, what’s your take on the new art scene downtown? Overhyped or worth it?”

He held my gaze for a moment, then relented. “Overhyped, mostly. Too much flash, not enough substance. But there’s potential.”

Our food arrived, steaming and fragrant, and we dug in, the talk shifting to lighter things—movies we’d seen, books we recommended. I laughed at his impression of a pretentious gallery critic, the sound foreign after days of silence. For a few minutes, I forgot the ache, the empty apartment waiting for me.

Then, a soft voice cut through the noise. “Elena?”

I looked up, my fork pausing mid-air. There she was—Sophia, her blonde hair loose over her shoulders, her pregnant belly prominent under a fitted sweater. She stood arm-in-arm with Marcus, their bodies close, his hand resting on the small of her back. Sophia’s green eyes sparkled with feigned surprise, her smile too sweet, too calculated.

“What are you guys doing here?” Sophia asked, her voice light, glancing between Damien and me. “Are you guys... together?” She gasped, placing a hand over her mouth as if uncovering a scandal. “Oh my God, Elena.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed, darting from me to Damien, his face hardening like a husband walking in on betrayal. “Are you cheating on me right now? Never knew you could stoop so low, Elena.”

I breathed deeply, keeping my voice calm, refusing to let them rattle me. “And your arms holding each other intimately is not a problem?”

Sophia tilted her head, her grip on Marcus tightening. “You know that we are just friends. Don’t try to deflect your affair with some excuses.”

“We are also friends, Mrs. Stone,” I said, my tone even, using her married name like a shield. “I’ve known Damien since childhood, and Marcus knows him too, don’t you, Marcus?”

Marcus crossed his arms, his jaw set. “That doesn’t explain this cozy dinner. Looks suspicious to me.”

Sophia jumped in, her voice dripping with accusation. “But that doesn’t mean you haven’t done any unforgivable act behind his back.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “Ha... It’s a waste of time explaining to you when you’re not worth it. Damien, let’s go. I’ve lost my appetite.”

We stood, gathering our coats, the restaurant’s chatter fading into a tense hush around us. Damien shot Marcus a hard look but stayed silent, following my lead as we moved to leave. But Marcus grabbed my arm, his fingers firm, pulling me back.

“Are you running away because you feel guilty of being caught?” he said, his voice low and angry.

“Are you doing all this because of the wedding being postponed?”

“And whose fault is it that it’s being postponed?” I replied, meeting his eyes steadily.

“Don’t accuse Sophia,” he said, his tone defensive. “It’s not her fault. I already told you I’m responsible and feel like I should take care of her and her child after she was abandoned by her husband.”

I sneered, pulling my arm free with a sharp tug. “Not her fault? Responsible?” I turned to face him fully, my voice rising just enough to cut through. “Did you push her to go abroad? Did you force her to follow a married man and then marry him after he divorced? Did you put the child in her stomach that’s causing our relationship to sour? Or did you force her to make her life decisions?”

Marcus stared, speechless, his mouth opening but no words coming out. Sophia shifted uncomfortably beside him, her hand dropping from his arm, her facade cracking for a split second.

I stepped back, done with the scene. “Actually, it’s not fully her fault but yours.” With that, I turned and walked away, Damien at my side, the restaurant door swinging shut behind us.

The cold air hit like a slap, snow crunching under our feet as we headed down the sidewalk. Damien glanced at me, his brow furrowed. “You okay? That was intense.”

“I’m fine,” I said, though my hands trembled slightly. “Just tired of their games.”

He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You handled it well. Didn’t let them push you around.”

“Thanks,” I said, managing a small smile. “But let’s not talk about it. Where to now? Coffee?”

“Coffee sounds good,” he agreed, and we walked on, the confrontation echoing in my mind.

Back at my apartment later, alone with my sketches, I replayed the scene. Marcus’s accusations, Sophia’s taunts—they were projections, deflections from their own mess. I’d defended myself, but the hurt lingered. In my journal, I wrote: Blame is easy, but owning choices is hard. I’m learning to let go of what isn’t mine.

The lesson settled, a step toward healing, as I picked up my pencil and drew—a heart mended, but scarred.