Chapter 2

I ordered another whiskey.

Seven years.

Seven years of this.

Chloe always running to Liam, always him first.

"He's just a friend, Ethan."

"He needs me, he doesn't have anyone else."

"You're just being jealous."

"You're trying to control me."

I heard her voice in my head, all the excuses, all the deflections.

Every time I' d tried to talk about it, about how it made me feel, about how she was tearing herself, and us, apart.

It always ended with me being the bad guy.

Me, selfish. Me, insecure. Me, not understanding their "deep, platonic bond."

Platonic. Right.

The bartender slid another drink towards me. I nodded, not meeting his eyes.

I remembered all the missed birthdays, the cancelled anniversaries, the holidays spent alone or with my parents, making excuses for her.

"Chloe sends her love, she just got caught up with a friend who's going through a hard time."

A hard time that conveniently happened whenever we had plans.

The phone buzzed again. I almost ignored it.

It was Chloe.

I let it ring, then sighed and answered.

"Ethan? Are you still at that bar?" Her voice was sharp, still annoyed.

"Yeah."

"Well, are you coming home or are you going to mope all night?"

I didn't say anything. What was there to say?

A beat of silence, then her tone shifted, became softer, sweeter. The one she used when she knew she'd pushed too hard.

"Look, I'm sorry about today, okay? Liam was just... you know how he gets. It was a false alarm, mostly. He's asleep now."

A false alarm that required coddling and a social media photoshoot.

"Let me make it up to you," she cooed. "Tomorrow night. Just us. That new Italian place you wanted to try? My treat. We'll have a real date night."

A make-up date. The classic Chloe move.

Something I used to crave, used to see as a sign that she still cared, that we could fix things.

Now, it just felt like another performance.

But a part of me, the stupid, hopeful part that had kept me in this for seven years, flickered.

"Okay," I said, my voice flat.

"Great! See you at home. Don't be too late."

She hung up.

I stared at my drink.

A make-up date.

For what? For another reminder that I was second place?

Or maybe eleventh.