Chapter 1: The Unwelcome Surprise
The key turned too easily in the lock, and that was the first thing that should have warned her.
Mia Santos stood in the doorway of her apartment, her overnight bag still slung over one shoulder, the strap cutting into her collarbone as she stared at the scene before her.
Her shift at the café had been absolute chaos.
One customer had complained about a coffee that wasn't hot enough. Another had sent their order back three times. The evening rush had lasted longer than usual, and by the time Mia finally clocked out, her feet were aching and her head was pounding.
Then the cab ride home had been a nightmare.
Traffic had barely moved for most of the journey.
All she'd wanted was to get home, kick off her shoes, curl up into her boyfriend's arms and tell him about the ridiculous day she'd had
She hadn't expected to find him naked on her couch.
With her best friend.
The apartment smelled wrong—that was the second thing. Not the familiar scent of jasmine candles and the lavender detergent she used, but something muskier, sharper. s*x. The air was thick with it, and it hit the back of her throat like smoke.
The scene before her was like something from a nightmare she couldn't wake from.
Marcus's head jerked up from between Vanessa's thighs, his eyes wide with the kind of guilty surprise that told her this wasn't the first time. Vanessa scrambled to cover herself with a throw pillow that Mia had bought at a flea market in Brooklyn, the same one where she'd found the vintage frames now hanging on the wall behind their entwined bodies.
"What the f**k?" The words escaped Mia's mouth before she could stop them, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears—raw, broken.
"Mia! Baby, I can explain—" Marcus reached for his pants, his movements clumsy, desperate. The man who had told her just last week that she was his "forever" now looked like a stranger.
Vanessa—her roommate since college and also her best friend forever scrambled to cover herself with a throw pillow which was beside her
"Oh god," Vanessa whispered, her voice trembling. "This isn't what it looks like."
Mia felt something crack inside her chest. "Really? Because it looks like my boyfriend is f*****g my best friend on my couch."
The silence that followed was deafening. Marcus reached for his boxers, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Vanessa mascara had smudged down her face
"How long?" Mia asked. Her voice had gone eerily calm now, the kind of calm that came right before something inside a person gave out completely. Neither of them answered. "I asked a question." She dropped her overnight bag. It hit the floor with a thud that made both of them flinch. "How. Long." Marcus finally got his pants zipped, standing there half-dressed and looking, for the first time since she'd known him, genuinely afraid. "Four months," he said quietly. Four months. Mia did the math without meaning to — four months ago was her birthday. He'd taken her to that overpriced Italian place and told her he loved her for the first time over tiramisu. She'd cried happy tears in the bathroom afterward and texted Vanessa about it, gushing, I think he might be the one. Vanessa had probably read that text in his bed. "Get out," Mia said. "Mia, please, let me explain—" "I said get OUT." The calm cracked. Her voice tore out of her raw and loud, bouncing off the walls of the apartment she'd decorated, the apartment she paid half the rent on with double shifts at the café, the apartment that no longer felt like hers. "Both of you. Now." Vanessa clutched the throw pillow to her chest like it could shield her from more than Mia's eyes. "Mia, we've been friends for six years—" "We were friends." Mia's hands were shaking. She shoved them into fists to make it stop. "Friends don't do this. Friends don't smile in your face and eat dinner at your table and then climb into bed with your boyfriend the second your back is turned." "It just happened," Vanessa said, and something about the flimsiness of that excuse — it just happened, like gravity, like weather — made Mia laugh. A horrible, broken sound that didn't belong to her. "It just happened," she repeated. "For four months. It just happened four months in a row." Marcus reached for his shirt, his eyes darting between the two women like he was trying to calculate which fire to put out first. "Mia, I never meant to hurt you—" "Don't." She held up a hand, and to her surprise, he actually stopped talking. "Don't you dare stand in my apartment and tell me what you meant. You don't get to explain your way out of this." She watched him gather the rest of his things — his phone off the coffee table, his shoes from beside the door where he'd kicked them off like he always did, comfortable, at home, entitled to her space even as he betrayed her in it. Vanessa wrapped herself in the throw blanket from the back of the couch, refusing to meet Mia's eyes as she gathered her clothes from the floor. "You can pack your stuff from the bedroom while I'm not here," Mia said to Vanessa, her voice flat now, hollowed out. "I want everything gone by tomorrow. Everything. If I find so much as a hair tie of yours in this apartment after that, I'm throwing it in the dumpster." "Mia—" "We're done," Mia said. "Not just tonight. Not just this. Six years, done. I don't know you anymore." Vanessa's face crumpled, but Mia didn't feel the pull to comfort her the way she always had — the way she'd learned to over six years of friendship, the reflex to smooth things over, to be the understanding one. That reflex was gone now, burned out of her along with everything else. Marcus paused at the door, his shirt still unbuttoned, his hair a mess from hands that weren't hers. "Can we at least talk about this tomorrow? When you've calmed down?" "There's nothing to talk about." Mia's throat tightened, but she refused — refused — to cry in front of him. Not now. Not while he was still standing in the doorway looking at her like she was the unreasonable one. "You made your choice four months ago. I'm just catching up." He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, then seemed to think better of it. He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door — the hook she'd installed herself, the hook he'd never once used correctly, always tossing his coat over the back of a chair instead — and walked out without another word. Vanessa lingered a moment longer, clutching her balled-up clothes to her chest, tears streaking fresh tracks through the old mascara stains. "I really am sorry," she whispered. Mia didn't answer. She just stared at her — really stared, memorizing the face of someone she used to trust with everything, someone who'd held her hair back after too much tequila, who'd cried at her college graduation, who'd promised to be her maid of honor one day. That person didn't exist anymore. When the door finally clicked shut behind them both, Mia stood alone in the wreckage of her apartment — the overturned pillow, the rumpled blanket, the smell that still hung thick in the air — and let herself sink to the floor. She didn't cry right away. For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at nothing, waiting for the tears that she knew were coming. Then her phone buzzed in her pocket — a text from a coworker asking if she was free to grab drinks tonight — and Mia, for reasons she couldn't fully explain even to herself, texted back: Yes. I need a drink. Where and when.
