Page 8 of Sin Bin Daddies
Sunny wags his tail from the couch, like he’s invested.
I flip through channels, landing on something familiar. A sitcom.
A sitcom Ethan and I used to watch together.
My stomach drops.
The episode is one of our favorites. The NYPD detective is making the suspects sing a Backstreet Boys song.
We used to curl up on the couch and belt out the lyrics and then recite the jokes word for word. Ethan used to tickle me during the funny parts, pulling me into his chest, murmuring how much he loved me.
A stupid, dumb detective show. But somehow, it cracks me open.
The next thing I know, tears are streaming down my face, hot and angry, my chest heaving with the force of a breakdown I didn’t see coming.
I gasp for breath, pressing the heel of my palm into my forehead, shaking.
“Fucking hell.”
I can’t do this. I can’t sit like this and pretend my life didn’t fall apart less than twenty-four hours ago.
I need air.
I shove off the couch, wiping my face furiously as I head for my suitcase.
I yank out the first thing I see—a pair of cutoff denim shorts, a white cropped tank top, and my worn-out Converse. My hair is still damp from the shower, but I rake my fingers through it and call it good enough.
Sunny watches curiously as I grab my purse and head for the door.
“Look,” I say, crouching down, scratching behind his ears. “I don’t know this city well enough, so you can’t come with me. I’m just gonna grab some food and bring you leftovers, deal?”
His tail thumps.
I take that as a yes.
Pho fixes everything.
I find a place with decent reviews, order a bowl of beef pho with extra cilantro, and sit by the window, watching the night unfold outside.
I text Henry my location, just in case.
>>Went out for dinner.
He doesn’t respond, probably busy with Daisy and her hockey husbands.
I sigh, flip my phone over, then flip it right back, opening the camera to snap a picture of my dinner.
Maybe I’ll post it on Instagram.
Something normal. Something casual. Something that says, “Hey, I’m in Miami, thriving, eating soup, not at all crying in random restaurants.”
As soon as I log in, I see it.
A picture.
Ethan.
Sitting at a bar, a drink in hand, grinning at the camera. And Katie’s hand is on his thigh.
