I moved into a small apartment two weeks later.
Sam called every day.
I didn’t answer most of the calls.
Patricia sent one apology.
It blamed the ruined birthday.
Not the ruined relationships.
I didn’t respond.
Lily and I began talking.
Awkwardly at first.
About work.
About books.
About ordinary things we’d never had the chance to share.
One evening, she came over for dinner.
I opened the door.
She smiled nervously.
“I brought dessert.”
A chocolate cake.
We both stared at it.
Then laughed.
For the first time in weeks, the laughter didn’t hurt.
I led her inside.
Two plates waited on the table.
Two glasses.
Two chairs.
Lily stopped beside one.
“Is this where I sit?”
I smiled.
“Anywhere you like.”
She pulled out the chair beside mine.
And sat down.
Neither of us mentioned Sam.
Not that evening.
There would be difficult conversations ahead.
