Page 93 of Shattered Promise

“Hope they know how lucky they are.”

I offer a faint chuckle. “Thanks.” My hands tuck into the pockets of my coat. “It just feels like the right time, you know?”

Her gaze sticks. Doesn’t blink. Smile too wide, the edges too tight.

“You’ll still text, right?” she says suddenly. “I mean… just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we have to stop talking.”

“Of course,” I lie, gently. We never really were texting friends.

Her eyes don’t move. Not even a little.

Beth’s silence stretches just a second too long. Then she blinks, like she’s rebooting.

“That’s good,” she says, voice slipping into something a little higher, a little too bright. “I was worried you might just ghost.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I reply, offering a small smile. “I’ve just been… overwhelmed lately.”

Her mouth twists like she’s about to say something else, but instead she just nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

She moves behind the bar again, her movements jerky, precise—lining up bottles that don’t need lining. One hand wipes the already-clean surface with the hem of her sleeve. The other curls around the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

Something in her posture shifts. Straighter. Rigid. Like she’s holding something in.

I glance at the clock above the bar, its ticking suddenly loud in my ears. “I should get going. Still have to drive back tomorrow.”

Beth looks up sharply.

Her smile doesn’t change, but her eyes do. Tighter now. Tired, maybe. Or something else.

“Bye, Beth,” I say, grabbing the strap of my purse. “Take care.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave.

Her voice is flat, clipped. “See ya later, Abby.”

One finger stays pressed against the edge of the bar, tapping once, then again. The rhythm gone now. Just… force.

I step out into the fading light, the door clicking shut behind me.

The back of my neck prickles like I just stepped out of the wrong room at the wrong time.

But when I glance back through the window, she’s gone.

Just the quiet bar, golden slats of light, and the aftertaste of something I can’t quite name.

Something sour, something I don’t want to look too closely at.

The afternoonlight stretches across my floor in long bars from the blinds, casting everything in that familiar Seattle softness—muted, drowsy, a little tender at the edges.

The apartment is mostly quiet, save for the creak of my suitcase zipping closed and the soft scuff of my flats on the hardwood.

Most of my life here was spent at work or work-related events. It was always in motion, running from one meeting to another, pulling long days more often than not. It didn’t leave me with a lot of time spent in my apartment, which makes packing everything easy.

I pull a box from the hall closet, ready to shove the last of my bathroom products inside, when something pastel catches my eye.

A pink terry cloth spa headband still in its plastic wrap, tucked beside a stack of sheet masks I barely remember buying. I frown, turning it over in my hand and seeing the tag still attached.

It’s probably something I ordered during one of those midnight stress purchases meant to make me feel like I had my life under control. I toss it into the box and seal it shut with a clean line of tape.

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