Chapter 2

"You never told me your knee flared up."

Brooke dropped a plate of sliced beef into the simmering hot pot. Her voice was taut with suppressed rage, which was infinitely scarier than when she yelled.

"Telling him wouldn't have changed anything," I said, fishing out a piece of tripe.

"How can you say that? He knows you had surgery on that knee!"

"And what if he does?"

Brooke stared at me for a long moment, letting the topic drop.

Steam curled up between us, blurring the outlines of her face.

We had been friends for eight years. She was always the brutally honest type, shooting straight from the hip.

Carter hated her. He used to say she had a venomous tongue, that every time I hung out with her, I came home "acting weird."

I actually believed him back then.

Looking back now, he only hated Brooke because she saw right through him from day one.

"Let me tell you something," Brooke said, setting her fork down. "And don't you dare say it's nothing."

I nodded.

"Last month, while I was waiting for you outside his office, I saw him and Serena walking out of the parking garage." She paused. "He was carrying her handbag."

I didn't say a word.

"In two years, how many times did you two go out? Did he ever once carry your bag?"

I thought back.

In two years, we went out maybe three times, always to the grocery store. I'd push the cart while he walked beside me, scrolling on his phone.

I didn't answer her.

My silence said everything.

"Chloe." She slid her phone across the table. On the screen was Serena’s TikTok, paused at the exact frame where Carter was leaning over the fish. "Look at his eyes."

I didn't look away.

There was something in his gaze. Something I had never received in seven hundred days. Simple, genuine care.

He cared whether there were bones in that fish, so he bent his head to pick them out.

He had never cared if there were bones on my plate.

The only thing he ever told me was: Maybe you should just stop eating fish.

"I remember when you choked on a bone that one time," Brooke's voice dropped low. "What did he say again?"

"He told me to stop eating fish."

"And you actually listened."

It wasn't a question.

I chewed on the meat. It tasted like cardboard.

"You know what the sickest part is?" Brooke scoffed. "You actually thought he was trying to protect you."

"...I thought he just hated hassles."

"He hated hassles when it came to you. But the second Serena says 'I'm scared of bones,' he whips out his utensils and fillets it for her." She shook her head. "He didn't hate trouble. He hated you."

He hated you.

The words struck like a slap, sharp and stinging.

It wasn't that I had never considered it. I was just too terrified to admit it to myself.

"About the Blue Ridge trip," I spoke up. "He told me an urgent project came up, told me to go first, and said he'd take the late train."

"Did he ever take it?"

"No."

"Because he never planned on going." Brooke’s tone was deadpan, laying out the facts with cold precision. "He sent you on a six-hour regional train all by yourself, watched you suffer through a swollen knee in silence, and spent those three days having romantic dinners with Serena."

I nodded.

Brooke fell silent.

That silence felt heavier than if she had flipped the table.

"That new suitcase," she said quietly. "Did you buy mint green on purpose?"

I kept my eyes on the boiling pot.

"He mentioned once that he liked that color."

"...Chloe."

"Yeah?"

"I've known you for eight years," her voice cracked slightly. "You used to wear whatever wild, gorgeous colors you wanted. Your art was always so bold and vibrant. On your birthdays, you used to buy huge bouquets of fresh flowers just because having them in a vase made you happy."

I kept my head down.

"And now?" she whispered. "Now you won't even buy a suitcase without checking if it fits his aesthetic first."

The soup bubbled loudly.

I picked up my water glass and took a sip, saying nothing.

Not because I had nothing to say.

Because speaking the truth out loud hurt far worse than staying quiet.

"When did it start between him and Serena?" I asked.

"I don't know for sure, but honestly?" Brooke paused. "I don't think it ever stopped."

I set my glass down, keeping my voice utterly level.

"I know."

Brooke blinked, taken aback by my calm.

"So what now?"

"I blocked him. Packed my stuff and moved out."

She stared at me for a long beat.

Then, she pushed the plate of beef toward me, her gaze softening.

"Eat up. You probably haven't had a decent meal all day."

I picked up my fork and took a bite.

After a couple of chews, the flavor finally broke through.

"Brooke," I said. "His mother said something to me once."

"What?"

"She told me Carter and Serena had been close since they were kids. Said it would've been a match made in heaven if they ended up together."

Brooke's fork froze in mid-air.

"She said that right to your face?"

"Right to my face. Then she sipped her tea and walked away."

Brooke took a deep, shuddering breath, holding it in before letting it out in a cold hiss.

"That whole family never saw you as one of them."