Chapter 2

The taxi is silent, except for the soft hum of the tires against the pavement. My face is still wet, mascara streaking down my cheeks like a dam just broke. I can't remember the last time I cried this much, if I’ve ever.

I sniffle, wiping my face with the back of my hand, but it’s no use. I’m ugly crying, sobbing like I’m the main character in some tragic romance movie.

Then I hear Callie’s voice, as always, the grounding force I need even when I’m falling apart. “You know, I told you not to trust someone named Monty,” she says, her voice surprisingly blunt.

I laugh through the tears, a shaky, choked laugh that sounds more like a sob than anything remotely joyful. “You did,” I reply, voice breaking. “But I was stupid enough to ignore the warning signs.”

Callie doesn’t try to sugarcoat things. She just keeps it real, even when it’s harsh. “Monty sounds like a walking red flag wrapped in a cheap suit,” she adds, leaning back in her seat, her arms crossed. “Honestly, I thought the guy was going to sell me some used cars when you first mentioned him.”

I glance over at her, her black leather jacket and those ridiculous glittery boots, shiny enough to blind a person. But for some reason, they’re comforting right now. Like she’s the one stable thing in this mess. “I should’ve listened,” I mutter.

Callie rolls her eyes. “No kidding. But hey, we live and learn.”

For a moment, we’re both silent, the weight of everything just hanging there. I start to feel the tension of the night start to seep away, just a little, but it’s the thought of my ruined champagne that pulls me back under.

“I can’t believe I wasted my favorite bottle of champagne on that asshole,” I whimper, my voice cracking again.

“Girl, you did blow up a perfectly good bottle of champagne on him,” Callie says dryly, not trying to comfort me but, in some twisted way, kind of making me feel better. “But hey, you sent a message.”

“It was my favorite. The one I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

“Well, consider this that occasion,” she says, leaning forward and giving me a side-eye. “Just don't throw a bottle of anything at your next boyfriend. Or your next ex. Or anyone, honestly.”

I can’t help but laugh a little, despite the mess I’m in.

But then, oh God, his dick. That limp, pathetic thing that I willingly let myself get close to. My stomach drops.

“What if he gave me an STI?” I whisper, eyes wide with panic. “What if I’m about to get some... gross infection?”

Callie glances over at me, her face softening for a second. “You’re fine. Just get tested.” She waves it off like it’s no big deal, and in some ways, she’s right. But it doesn’t feel that way.

“I can’t believe I ever thought he was the one,” I mumble. “I was gonna settle down with him. I loved him, Callie. He was my future.”

Callie huffs, clearly not having any of that. “You’re better off without him. You deserve someone who won’t make you feel like a damn fool.”

The third drink goes down like water, but the fourth one hits. Hard.

I’m a mess in heels, leaning against our high-top table, giggling and sniffling into a cocktail straw while Callie tells me all the inventive ways she’d like to castrate Monty and feed him his dick sautéed in sriracha. She’s wearing this black leather corset top with a cutout that basically turns heads every time she moves, paired with her favorite ripped jeans and sparkly knee-high boots. Her makeup’s flawless, gold shimmer, big lashes, lips like cherry venom.

Me? I look like heartbreak dressed for revenge. My pink silk mini dress is barely clinging to my body, held up by two spaghetti straps that I keep adjusting. My lipstick is smudged just enough to say, I cried in an Uber, and my eyeliner’s wing is hanging on for dear life, like my will to live. I wrapped myself in a cropped white faux-fur jacket because if I’m going to fall apart, I want to look like a deranged heiress while doing it.

The music thumps around us, too loud and too bassy, like it’s trying to rattle the heartbreak right out of my ribcage. The lights are dim, purple and red strobes flashing across dark brass table tops and bodies grinding on the dance floor. It smells like sweat, overpriced cologne, and spilt vodka. It should be overwhelming. It is overwhelming. But it’s better than thinking.

Callie’s midway through a rant about how Monty’s balls probably have the texture of a used loofah when I glance toward the bar... and freeze.

There’s a guy leaning against it, alone. He’s got that expensive-but-effortless thing going on. Slim-cut black trousers, a white button-down with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, no tie. His jacket's slung over one shoulder, and there's a silver watch glinting on his wrist like it was born there. Tall. Brooding. Hair dark and slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it five times before deciding he looked good enough.

He’s watching me.

Not in a creepy way. In a curious way. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m crying over a breakup or plotting someone's death. Which... fair.

I quickly look away, cheeks warm. “Callie. Hot guy. Bar. Don’t look.”

She immediately turns around and stares dead at him.

“CALLIE.”

She squints. “Holy hell. Who let a Calvin Klein ad walk in here? Why’s he looking at you like you kicked his puppy?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble, suddenly hyper-aware of my everything. “Maybe I have mascara on my nose.”

“You definitely do,” she says, dabbing it with her thumb. “But honestly? It’s giving tragically beautiful. Like Lana Del Rey in a bender.”

I sip my drink and pretend not to look at him again, but when I glance back, he’s still watching.

And then he starts walking over.

Callie inhales sharply. “Shit. He’s coming. Act cool.”

“I’m not cool.”

“Too late. We’re doing this.”