Page 11 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
MAYA
The second I step through the doors of the garden terrace, the air shifts.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Like the room exhales at my arrival, then holds its breath. The quiet hum of polite conversation dulls slightly, like someone turned the volume down by a notch. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But I do.
And that’s when I see him.
Nick.
He’s just… there. Leaning casually against a white-column draped in gauzy fabric and eucalyptus vines, like some cursed Greek statue brought to life. Crisp white shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he’s trying too hard not to try at all. A half-full glass in one hand, his other tucked in his pocket.
And his eyes are locked on me.
For one too-long, too-loud moment, we stare at each other.
His expression gives me nothing. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. But his eyes—God, his eyes are exactly the same. Sharp. Unrelenting. Like twin searchlights dragging across every part of me I thought I’d buried under distance and time.
My heart slams against my ribs, fast and furious, like it’s trying to warn me:Run. Retreat. Regret.
But I don’t.
I pull in a shallow breath, straighten my spine, and force a tight-lipped smile.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, voice thinner than I’d like, and sidestep him.
I don’t look back, but I can feel him watching me.
I weave through the crowd, past champagne flutes and curated floral arrangements that probably cost more than my car. The light streaming through the French doors is too warm, too golden, like the universe is mocking me for thinking I could keep cool and collected in this screwed-up situation.
I find a mimosa and wrap my fingers around the stem. My pulse is still racing, unsteady and unforgiving.
How did I think this was going to be okay?
This whole thing—agreeing to be a bridesmaid in Nick’s sister’s wedding—felt abstract when it consisted only of emails and calendar invites. A paycheck wrapped in tulle. A favor for Danielle. I told myself I could handle it. That I was a professional. That I’d moved on.
But one look at him and it all crashes back like a damn tidal wave.
The late-night arguments that started with nothing and ended with everything. The way his voice would dip and roughen when he apologized, all stubborn pride cracking at the edges. The way I used to fall asleep best on his couch, his hoodie drowning me in warmth, the smell of cedar and soap clinging to my skin.
The way it ended—badly. Messily. With more silence than closure.
I push the thoughts down. Deep, deep down. Lock the door. Throw away the key.
Danielle deserves her day. And I’m not letting a ghost from my past ruin it. But as I exhale, I hear the quiet scrape of his voice behind me.
“Maya.”
I don’t turn at first. Just swirl the bottom of my mimosa like the orange juice pulp might spell out a polite exit strategy.
Eventually, I look over my shoulder. “Nick.”
He’s already too close. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne and the familiar tension he carries in his shoulders when he’s about to say something he probably shouldn’t.
“You weren’t going to say hi?”
I tilt my head. “Didn’t want to interrupt the show. You looked busy holding court.”
He exhales, sharp and humorless. “Right. So now we pretend we’re strangers.”
