Part 1Walking Away From Our Broken Life

It happened during the third round of drinks.

Travis, a guy who had been two years behind me at State, suddenly stood up. The screech of his chair against the hardwood floor cut through the chatter of the reunion dinner like a serrated blade.

The entire private room at the bistro went silent.

He pointed a finger directly at me, his face flushed a deep, drunken crimson.

"Jason, man, I’m putting my cards on the table tonight," he slurred, his voice loud enough to vibrate the wine glasses. "I’m in love with Elena. I think we should have a fair shot at her. May the best man win."

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. I looked up at him.

He flinched for a split second, his gaze flickering, but then he squared his shoulders and stared back with a bravado fueled by cheap bourbon. Around the table, our old college friends exchanged glances. Some started to snicker, thinking it was a bit; others looked away, sensing the sudden shift in the air.

I didn't say a word.

But Elena, sitting right next to me, let out a light, airy laugh.

It wasn't a laugh of embarrassment or discomfort. It was the sound of someone deeply enjoying the spotlight.

"Well, well," she said, setting her wine glass down. Her eyes crinkled into beautiful, playful crescents. "I guess I’ve still got it. It’s nice to know I’m still a prize worth fighting for."

She stood up, deliberately walked around my chair, and stopped next to Travis. Then, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm.

She looked at me, a defiant, provocative tilt to her chin.

The room erupted.

"Whoa, things just got interesting!" someone shouted.

"Jason, you gonna let him do that? Say something, man!"

"She’s just testing you, bro. Give her a show!"

I watched her hand on his sleeve. She had just gotten her nails done yesterday—a soft, shimmering rose quartz. I remembered her coming home and telling me the set cost sixty dollars plus tip. I had mentioned it seemed a bit steep.

You just don’t get it, she had snapped back.

I laid my fork down quietly. I stood up and grabbed my charcoal overcoat from the back of the chair.

The laughter in the room began to die down, one voice at a time.

Elena was still clinging to Travis’s arm, looking up at me with a smirk that said, What are you going to do about it?

"Why fight?" I said, my voice steady and devoid of heat. "If you want her so badly, she’s yours. I’m done."

The silence that followed was absolute, as if someone had sucked the oxygen right out of the room.

Elena’s smirk didn't just fade; it shattered. Her hand remained on Travis’s arm, but her posture went rigid, turning her into a marble statue of herself. Travis’s face drained from red to a sickly, pale white.

I pulled on my coat and zipped it up. I didn't look at either of them. I didn't look at anyone.

I walked out of the room. Behind me, there wasn't a single sound—no footsteps, no protests, no more jokes.

Just as the elevator doors were closing, I heard the crash of a chair hitting the floor from the direction of the bistro. Then came the frantic, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of heels on tile.

I pressed the button for the garage.

By the time I reached my SUV, my phone started vibrating in my pocket. Her name flashed across the screen over and over.

I ignored it. I started the engine, shifted into reverse, and pulled out.

As the gate to the garage lifted, I saw a figure in the rearview mirror. Elena had burst out of the elevator lobby, her heels in one hand, her bare feet hitting the cold concrete of the parking garage. Her mouth was moving, screaming something I couldn't hear through the glass.

I didn't tap the brakes.

I pulled out onto the street and hit the first red light. I reached into my glove box and pulled out a burner phone I’d bought a week ago. I dialed a number I knew by heart.

A man picked up on the second ring. "Hey, Jason."

"Do it," I said.

I hung up. The light turned green, and I drove.

My primary phone buzzed again. It was her. I turned it off.