Ten Years of Lies He Never Loved MeChapter 1
Valentine Henson and I were tangled up for ten whole years.
He wouldn't go public, so I waited. He said he was busy, so I behaved.
Until that night at the bar, when his buddies started egging him on with his childhood friend: "C'mon, wifey, pour one for Val!"
Rosalie Chambers, the girl who'd grown up by his side since they were kids, laughed and settled herself onto his lap.
Valentine didn't push her off. He even leaned down and fixed the strap that had slipped off her shoulder.
I stood outside the booth, holding the hangover tea I'd brought for him.
He saw me.
Our eyes met. His brow creased, just barely.
Then he looked away.
Rosalie leaned into his ear to whisper something, and he tilted his head to listen, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgent smile.
I stood there for a moment. Then I handed the tea to a server, turned around, and left.
Ten years.
And in his eyes, I didn't even deserve a glance.
I was halfway down the alley when his message came through:
"She had too much to drink and was just messing around. Don't overthink it."
I looked down and typed. My hands were steady.
"Valentine, I'm done waiting for you."
Then I blocked him.
The tenth year of us being together.
The year I finally let go.
...
I walked out of the alley, and the wind rushed in, cold against my back.
A November night. The hangover tea had gone cold long ago, but my palms still held a trace of warmth from the cup.
I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and realized my fingertips were trembling.
Not from the cold. From the emptiness.
The kind of emptiness that comes when someone reaches into your chest and rips out everything you've been carrying for ten years, and all that's left is a hollow space filled with wind, howling through you.
My phone buzzed again.
I didn't look.
I kept walking and passed a sweet potato cart, steam billowing off it, the sugary smell hitting me in a warm wave.
Back when he used to pick me up after work in the winter, he'd always buy one so I could warm my hands.
His hands were big enough to wrap around my entire fist. He'd walk beside me, complaining that my fingers were cold as a corpse.
"Valentine, your hands are so warm."
"No kidding. I just held a hot sweet potato for you."