He Chose My Best Friend, Now He Wants Me Back Chapter 13

He Chose My Best Friend, Now He Wants Me Back Chapter 13

After a long moment, he asked, his voice raw with a plea.

“Do you hate me?”

He looked at her, the veins in his eyes stark in the fading light. “Because of me, you lost Sloane.”

“Because of me, you wasted eight years.”

I let out a soft laugh, a sound like wind skimming over sand, leaving no mark.

“Ben, don’t give yourself that much credit.”

My voice was steady, almost cruel in its calmness. “I don’t love you anymore. So I don’t hate you, either.”

He looked like he’d been struck. His body went rigid.

I shifted the box in my arms and turned toward the corner. “I need to get these back to the shop.”

He followed me like a puppet on a string.

The bookstore was just around the corner, the “Mara’s Books” sign exactly as it was in the photo. The shop was small, but the light spilling from the window was warm.

I pushed the door open, and a wind chime tinkled.

“I’m back, Leo,” I called toward the counter. An orange cat poked its head out from behind a stack of books and meowed lazily.

A few of my seascape paintings hung on the walls, and a collection of bottles with notes from customers stood in the corner. Ben lingered awkwardly by the door, a stranger who had wandered into someone else’s home, unsure of what to do with his hands.

He listened as I described my new life, each word a fresh cut.

“I opened this shop with the settlement money,” I said casually, shelving the books. “The landlady is wonderful. She brings me apple pie sometimes. The owner of the cafe next door—the one you were just in—keeps an eye on the place for me.”

His chest tightened as he listened.

The old me had never talked about the future like this.

Before, every sentence about the future started with we. The house we would buy. The dog we would get. Where we would retire.

Now, I only talked about I.

And my bookstore.

Just then, a girl in glasses pushed open the door. “Mara,” she said, “did that poetry collection I asked about come in?”

“It did. I saved you a copy.” I smiled, pulling the book from under the counter and handing it to her.

They chatted about a poet he’d never heard of, and the girl shared a piece of town gossip as she paid. Ben stood between the shelves, watching me work the register, watching me talk to the customer like an old friend.

He was an outsider here, a smudge on a clean canvas.