Page 2 of The Breakup Broker

Handles the ones who don’t make it. The Three Fates of Manhattan Romance.

Me

I’m pretty sure this isn’t what we meant when planning our “perfect wedding empire” in college.

Maddy

Maybe not. But at least we’re still in it together. Different corners of the same business.

The familiar rhythm of our banter almost made me forget what I was about to do. Almost. But even after all those breakups, it hadn’t made this one any easier.

I grabbed my bag, checked my lipstick—neutral, professional, absolutely not the same shade I wore during my heartbreak—and headed for the side entrance. During store hours, I could cut through the back storage room and take the interior stairs down, but the exterior staircase was faster when the shop wasn’t open.

I slipped outside, avoiding the romance display I could see my mother arranging through the window. Three hundred and forty-one breakups later, I stillcouldn’t look at those promises of forever without flinching.

The scent of damp leaves and river water hung in the air, crisp with the first hints of autumn.

Mrs. Patterson had left and was now entering the post office, probably updating Frank about the latest town gossip. Old Mr. Dixon was unlocking The Weathered Barn, though why he bothered when nothing ever sold was one of River Bend’s greatest mysteries.

My phone buzzed again.

Maddy

Drone rehearsal moved to 2. Had to promise the parks department no water features this time.

Ivy

Still need that camp counselor backstory! How do you feel about archery?

Me

Heading to the train. Try not to create any more true love while I’m crushing someone’s dreams.

Maddy

That’s our Savvy. Bringing balance to the universe, one broken heart at a time.

The train station sat at the edge of town like a postcard from 1952. Complete with a copper-green roof and more gingerbread trim than a Christmas cookie, it served as both a transportation hub and an unofficial town museum. The walls were lined with black-and-white photos of River Bend’s brushes with fame—FDR’s whistle-stop campaign, that time Grace Kelly’s car broke down and Dad’s grandfather fixed it at the shop, and the summerthey filmedAutumn in New Yorkusing Main Street as a backdrop. The town council still argued whether Richard Gere ate at Common Grounds or just stood outside.

“Morning, Savvy.” Tom, who’d been selling train tickets since before I was born, waved from his booth. “Another Wednesday, another broken heart?”

“Just doing my part to keep the therapists of New York employed.” I tapped my monthly pass against the reader. The Metropolitan Transit Authority might have gone digital, but Tom’s booth still had the original brass ticket window, polished daily by his proud hands.

The 7:15 whistle cut through the morning air, right on schedule. Joe, the conductor, had the door to my usual car open, and sure enough, there was my seat—the one that mysteriously remained empty every day I traveled, complete with a fresh box of tissues tucked into the magazine pocket. I’d tried asking Joe once how the seat remained unoccupied, but he just gave me that all-too-familiar smile and handed me a peppermint.

“One of these days,” Joe said as I settled in, “you’re going to get on this train looking like someone who hasn’t memorized every sad song Taylor Swift ever wrote.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve branched out to Adele.” I pulled out my phone, rechecking the morning’s client details. I never asked for names or contact information, just time, place, and basic identification markers. Today was simple.

The train rolled past River Bend’s greatest hits—the gazebo where Maddy still tested all her proposal ideas, the park where Ivy had coordinated her first wedding party photos, the bench where I … well, some landmarks were better left in the past.

New York was big. Too big for chance encounters. Atleast, that’s what I told myself. Still, after all these years, I was surprised I’d never run into Henry. Eight million people, yet the city could feel impossibly small when it wanted to. Maybe it was because he lived in a different world now—a world of gala dinners, designer suits, and family mergers. Meanwhile, I’d traded one kind of small town for another, choosing bookstores over boardrooms and freedom over expectations. I wasn’t sure if that made me brave or just lonely.

Through the window, I watched my small town transform into increasingly urban landscapes, like a flip book of everything I was leaving behind. River Bend, where everyone knew your name, your coffee order, and exactly which NYU boy had ghosted you into a career change. The city, where anonymity was just another luxury item, like oat milk or therapy.

My phone buzzed with updates from the morning’s disasters in progress.

Ivy

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