Page 2 of The Placeholder
“I just think... I don’t know. There might be someone better out there. Someone younger, hotter.”
The controller buttons click rapidly as my world implodes quietly in the hallway.
Henry scoffs. “Dude, Della’s only twenty-eight. And way hotter than you deserve, by the way."
“Yeah, but?—"
“If you’re not sure after seven years, why are you still with her?”
The question I’ve been asking myself for years, now voiced by someone else. I hold my breath, waiting.
“She’s good for now,” Jared says with a casualness that slices through me. “And this place? The brownstone is hers. Way better than anything I could afford on my own. If something better doesn’t come around in the next couple of years, I’ll reevaluate.”
I back away silently, each word a shard of glass embedding itself in my chest. The stairs creak beneath my weight as I climb them, one hand trailing along the banister for support, the other clutching my heart through the emerald fabric. My vision blurs, hot tears threatening to spill over.
In our bedroom—my bedroom, I correct myself bitterly—I sink onto the edge of the mattress. The sheets still bear the indentation where Jared supposedly lay sick all day.The nightstand holds an empty Gatorade bottle, a prop in his elaborate performance of illness.
I don’t allow myself to sob. Instead, I sit perfectly still as tears track silently down my cheeks, ruining the makeup I’d so carefully applied for Betsy’s celebration. Seven years reduced to “good for now.” Seven years of supporting his dreams while he waited for someone “better.”
My phone buzzes in my clutch. Liana is checking in, no doubt. I can’t bring myself to look. Instead, I slip out of my dress, hanging it carefully in the closet beside the other beautiful things I’ve bought to please a man who sees me as temporary housing.
In the bathroom, I scrub away my tears along with my mascara, staring at my reflection. Blue eyes rimmed in red. Twenty-eight and apparently past my prime, according to the man sleeping in my bed, eating my food, living in my home.
I change into silk pajamas—another expensive gift to myself that Jared has never noticed—and slide between the sheets on my side of the bed. Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do. Tonight, I’ll lie here and mourn the death of something I should have buried years ago.
Downstairs, the video game continues, gunfire and laughter floating up through the floorboards like ghosts. I turn my face into the pillow and close my eyes, wishing I could unhear the truth that has finally shattered the beautiful lie I’ve been telling myself.
CHAPTER 1
DELLA
The morning light slices through my bedroom curtains like a passive-aggressive Post-it note from the universe. I spent the night mentally scrapbooking every moment of our relationship, my brain a deranged Pinterest board of red flags I’d color-coded as romantic quirks. By the time my alarm chimes—that obnoxious marimba that once made Jared throw my phone across the room—I’ve already been awake for hours, my eyes as dry and scratchy as the toast he always burns but insists is “European style.”
Jared mumbles something about “pancakes” in his sleep, his arm carelessly thrown across my pillow like a possessive octopus tentacle. I slide out from under the covers with the stealth of a cat burglar, holding my breath when the ancient floorboard by my nightstand creaks. I freeze and wait to ensure he doesn’t stir. It’s better to let him sleep in his drool puddle. He should dream of someone “better” while I mentally catalog which of hisbelongings will fit into those hideous neon gym duffels he refuses to replace.
I dress quietly in the bathroom, applying my makeup with the mechanical precision of a bomb technician—foundation, concealer, blush—each swipe of product another brick in today’s emotional fortress. My phone buzzes with a text from Liana, the screen lighting up with her contact photo:
Lunch today? The usual spot at 1? I’ll save you from the kale smoothie cult in accounting.
If only she knew. I text back, “Yes, please, rescue me,” and slip out of the apartment before Jared wakes, leaving him a note about an early meeting scribbled on the back of a CVS receipt, long enough to gift wrap a small elephant. Another lie to add to our collection.
The hours at work pass in a blur of fluorescent lighting and aggressive air conditioning that turns my office into Antarctica. I smile through a client call with my “everything is fabulous” voice, present a marketing strategy with enthusiasm, and answer emails with the emotional range of a chatbot. No one notices that behind my professional facade, my soul has gone on an extended coffee break.
By the time I reach Maison Verde, where the plants are somehow always suspiciously perfect (do they replace them nightly?), Liana is already seated at our corner table, two glasses of rosé waiting like liquid therapy. The restaurant hums with the particular symphony of lunchtime conversation—half business jargon, half gossip, all performed at that precise volume that suggests importance without shouting. Her face brightens when she spots me,sunshine breaking through clouds, then immediately darkens like someone just canceled Christmas.
“Holy shit, Della." Liana’s manicured fingers—today sporting a different shade on each nail like tiny mood rings—shoot across the table to grab mine. Her chunky turquoise bracelet clinks against the water glass. “Your face looks like someone replaced your moisturizer with Elmer’s glue.”
I take a theatrical gulp of wine, feeling it slide down my throat like liquid courage with notes of “screw him” and hints of “I’m done.” “He wasn’t sick. Unless PlayStation thumb counts as a medical condition."
“Shocker of the century,” she deadpans, adjusting the lopsided orchid centerpiece that’s leaning dangerously close to her salad bowl.
“He was playing Call of Duty with Henry—volume cranked high enough to wake the dead but apparently not high enough to drown out their little heart-to-heart.” I trace figure eights in the condensation on my glass, creating tiny rivers that race toward the table. “I became an accidental eavesdropper.”
Liana leans forward so dramatically that her statement necklace nearly dunks into her dressing, her kohl-rimmed eyes narrowing like a soap-opera villain about to discover who killed the butler. “Spill it. Every fucking syllable.”
The words taste bitter on my tongue, like I’ve been sucking on a penny I found in the laundry. “That I’m ‘good for now.’ That he’s waiting for someone ‘better.’ Younger. Hotter.” I laugh, the sound like a champagne cork popping at a funeral. “Oh, and he loves my brownstone. Very convenient. Apparently, my real estate portfolio is hotter than my ass."
“That motherfucker.” Liana’s voice drips with the kind of venom that could make a cobra take notes. Her knuckles whiten around her fork until it resembles a tiny silver pitchfork ready for a demonic salad uprising. “Tell me you kicked him out last night and donated his Xbox to a retirement home.”
