The giant, shimmering rock in the palm of my hand is heavy and meaningless. I turn it over several times, staring at it as though it isn’t a real, tangible object resting against my skin. Blinking, I’m convinced I’ll make it disappear, like some sort of naïve, twisted magic trick.

Love can’t be trusted—a lesson I learned a decade ago.

While my life may be lacking faith in love, there’s one thing it certainly isn’t short of: death.

Death is real. It’s an aching fact we spend our entire lives pretending it isn’t coming for us, hunting us down. It’s the elephant in the room we pretend doesn’t exist.

From the moment we take our first breaths, death is humankind’s fate. We’re all doomed to die one way or another, whether by natural causes or someone else’s hand. Torturous? Peaceful? No one knows how they’ll leave this world. Still, it doesn’t change one simple truth: no matter if it’s expected or not, death still catches you by surprise, dragging you into a spiral of pain and grief, no matter the circumstances.

When I think about my life, I suppose the same could be said about love. Love, like death, only brings heartbreak.

That’s where the similarities end, though.

Death is reliable, and love can’t be trusted.

After dropping the pale blue, gleaming stone from my palm, I dangle the long chain from the ends of my fingertips and trudge up the last flight of stairs leading to my apartment floor. The stone swings like a pendulum, reminding me of the weight of its meaning. Do the dead miss the living like the living miss the dead? Does it even matter in the end?

I will the dark cloud hanging over me to disappear, thankful to be out of that jewelry store and heading home.

“Strange, isn’t it?” my sister asks through the phone, tearing me from my thoughts.

“What is?” I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder and blow a loose strand of hair away from my face, but it flies back, shielding half my eye. I jerk my head and fish my apartment key out of my purse, keeping my grandmother’s necklace tight in my grip and my phone pressed between my cheek and shoulder.

“That they can turn ashes into stone. It’s strange, right?” London’s voice quivers, and I imagine her shuddering at the thought.

“It’s not strange to me.” I frown. “I find it fascinating.”

“Of course you do. You’ve always been a romantic like that.”

“Me, a romantic?”

“Yeah, you know. You wear your heart on your sleeve. You’re the writer, expressing yourself through that book you spent nearly all your adulthood writing. You have a way with words, and everything you touch has meaning to you.”

I snort on that last part. “Not everything I touch has meaning to me, London.” My voice is softer than I intend. Fuck, maybe my sister is right. Maybe I’m not as mysterious as I think I am.

But I don’t agree with her about wearing my heart on my sleeve. If anything, I keep it well covered and protected.

Although London isn’t my sister by blood, sometimes I wonder if my parents secretly had her and accidently gave her up to the orphanage before they’d found her again and decided to adopt her back into the family. Despite our closeness, though, we couldn’t be more different. Where she is sleek, with rich black hair, pale grey eyes, and full lips I’m certain her fiancé West constantly reminds her how much he appreciates them daily, I have near platinum blonde hair, green eyes the color of swamp water, and lips half the fullness of my sister’s.

Despite our differences, sometimes I think London knows me better than I know myself. Except for the part where she says everything I touch has meaning. With that, she couldn’t be more wrong.

“You had Grandma’s ashes turned into a necklace so you could keep her with you, Selene.” Her tone is flat, no hint of judgment. “In my opinion, it’s a little strange. Also romantic in a weird, slightly morbid way, I guess.”

I know London is sad over our grandmother’s death, but neither of us are naïve to how her death has hit me harder than her.

London has been through some shit in her life. Aside from bouncing from foster home to foster home until our parents adopted her the day before her fourteenth birthday, she’d gotten into an accident that caused her to lose her memory. She only recently regained it a few months back after reuniting with the love of her life, Weston Knight—the love she’d been forced to leave behind at the foster home. He also happens to be in our friend circle, as well as being her ex-husband’s brother.

Oh, and there’s the teeny, tiny, minor detail of him being a billionaire.

Regardless, London is absolutely head over heels in love with West, and his obsession with her is enough to make even the most hardened of hearts jealous.

Or their stomachs sick with nausea.

With my key hovering in front of the deadbolt, I stare down at the gem in my hand. Is it strange my grandmother’s ashes have been turned into a gem? Maybe. It’s not like I kept a lock of her hair or anything and made it into something weird. This is a necklace. A gorgeous one. I can’t help looking at the gleaming stone and admiring how something so dark and depressing can be turned into something beautiful.

Maybe London was right. Maybe I am a romantic.

I square my shoulders and lift my chin as if she’s standing in front of me instead of being on the other side of the city, speaking to me over the phone. “I think Grandma would have thought it was poetic.”

A few moments of silence pass before her heavy sigh hits my ear, laced with a nostalgic tone. “You know, sis, I think you’re right. She would have.”

“Thank you.” I smile softly, even though she can’t see it.

After sticking my key into the deadbolt lock, I turn it, ready to shed out of these sticky clothes and into something nice for tonight’s event, but my stomach flips, not feeling the lock’s usual resistance.

“Oh shit.” I groan under my breath.

“What?” London quickly catches on, the panic in her voice raising.

I drop my grandmother’s necklace into my purse and shift the phone to my hand. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“What?” she squeaks out. “Why?”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

I know exactly who is in my apartment without even opening the door. Still, I place my keys between my fingers to create a makeshift weapon, just in case. Even if it is who I think it is, and not an intruder, I’m likely to use them to stab him in the neck anyway.

“Selene, you can’t just say things like that and hang up⁠—”

“Everything is fine. I’ll see you later tonight,” I insist, ignoring her plea yet again.

“Wait! Before you go, Julianna had your dress⁠—”

I stab my thumb against the red button on the screen, cutting my sister off before giving her the chance to finish her sentence. I just want to get this over with.

Twisting the doorknob, I push the door open and find him sitting exactly where I expect him to be: slouched on the sofa, long legs spread apart, hands lazily draped between them. One hand is cupping his admittedly small bulge under his gray sweatpants.

Such a waste considering what gray sweatpants can do to a woman’s imagination.

My eyes rake over his whole body, and I somehow resist the urge to roll them dramatically when he turns his head in my direction, and his tired eyes find mine. His hair is disheveled and unkempt, and his five o’clock shadow has stayed well past its welcome.

“Hot water isn’t working again.” He raises his arm lazily, gesturing down the hallway.

“Great,” I mutter, dropping my purse on the end table near the front door. “Thanks for letting me know.” Brushing my hair off my face, I cross over to the kitchen and pour myself a fresh glass of water.

Adam watching me the entire time, burning a hole in my back and my brain.

My silence is deafening. I know it’s driving him crazy that I’m not giving him the sort of reaction he wants. The only reaction I have is wishing he was anywhere else but here in my apartment.

I swallow a huge gulp of water and finally eye him over my glass. He doesn’t move from his position, his admittedly pretty eyes still staring at me.

I place my glass on the counter and inhale a deep breath. I guess we need to have a talk. Begrudgingly, I plant both my hands on the counter and straighten my arms, using them as an anchor. I know Adam won’t leave willingly or easily. If he was even the slightest bit considerate and understanding, he wouldn’t be here in the first place, taking up space in my apartment.

“Well?” His eyebrows rise. “You’re not going to say anything about the burst water pipe? I couldn’t take a shower, Selene.”

I scoff, taking in the acrid scent surrounding him and his overall greasy appearance settling in the small space of my tiny New York apartment. “Obviously.”

“Wow.” He tucks his chin in and shakes his head. While pulling himself to a stand, he blows out a hot breath and angrily parks both his hands on his hips. Chip crumbs tumble down his chest, falling to my floor, getting lost in the fibers of my living room carpet. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t insult my ego just then. It isn’t my fault I couldn’t shower.”

I stare at him with pinched brows, gripping the edge of the counter tighter. My broken pipes have nothing to do with his lack of cleanliness and self-care. It’s just him.

I can feel my head expanding, ready to explode. Not because I’m heartbroken over him. I’m just annoyed by the fact he’s still here. I open my mouth to point out the obvious, but I wait to see if the light bulb will flick on above that greasy head of his. I scan my apartment and see empty soda cans and chip bags littering the floor. A mysterious, dried brown liquid is caked to the wooden surface of the coffee table. I already know it will take entirely too much time and muscle for me to scrub it clean. Sure, I’m aware my place isn’t the best and is on the verge of falling apart, but the fact Adam thinks he can crash at my place like it’s some college frat house during rush week, sets me off.

“Adam.” I close my eyes and force myself to focus on my breathing before the next words find their way out of my mouth. When I crack my eyes open, I find him standing in the same position, refusing to budge. “You don’t live here. This isn’t your apartment and this isn’t your food. We also aren’t together anymore, remember?”

He jerks his head back again, brows rising. He looks like a wounded puppy. His eyes soften as he rakes his fingers through his greasy hair. It doesn’t budge when his arm drops to his side. “I thought you were joking when you said things were over between us.”

I curl my lip, wondering how I could be any clearer when I told him only last night, using the most straightforward language you can to break-up with someone.

We’re over, Adam. I can’t date you anymore.

“I honestly don’t know how you’re confused. I made my intentions very clear.” I shrug and tear off a piece of paper towel from the holder next to the sink. I fish a bottle of spray cleaner out from under it and move to the coffee table. I spray a good amount of the pungent, citrus-scented liquid on the sticky-brown stain and wait for it to soak in.

Adam’s hand lands on my back, and I freeze.

“I figured you were only saying that because you’ve been going through a lot lately.” His voice is soft and tender. “With your grandmother passing and all.”

I stand, blinking back the tears welling in my eyes. The familiar knot of grief winds itself into my chest.

Dammit, Adam

I look at him and know I made the right decision in ending things with him last night. I first met him a few months ago through a book blogging account. He sent me a message—the first to strike up a conversation. I found his forwardness endearing. I’d never been big on relationships, and I’d most definitely never been the most outgoing person. After talking for days through social media, we agreed to meet at a coffee shop. He was kind and soft, with an innocent charm about him, despite him being in his late twenties. Most men our age are all sharp lines and edges made for intimidation. Adam wasn’t that.

It was then, at that first meeting, he’d told me the truth about how he’d lied to me in our messages. He wasn’t a writer, per se. According to him. He was an editor for the New York Times. I’d brushed off his lie, excited by the idea of finally talking literature with someone other than my eighty-nine-year-old grandmother.

That day in the coffee shop, he’d quickly inserted himself into my bubble. A bubble I’ve been careful about protecting and monitoring who gets access to my whole life. I let him in too easily. Maybe it was the common ground I found with him in that moment. As a rising New York Times editor, we connected on a level most others in my life haven’t been able to.

But I had been a fool, blind to all the other qualities he possessed, including the one where he only thought of himself. Oh, and the fact that he looks like he’s just crawled out of a trash can unless he is forced to get cleaned up for the sake of work.

He pushes out his bottom lip, and his eyes soften even deeper, looking at me with pity.

My stomach turns. “Adam…”

“Sometimes, when tragic, unexpected events happen in our lives, we make rash and poor decisions for ourselves.” He gently presses his thumb to my chin, smiling at me with sympathy.

I jerk my chin away. “Are you implying I’m not capable of making rational decisions?” The knot tightens, gripping around the base of my throat.

“Well, no.” He blinks, sighing, and takes a step back.

“Then, what part of what I said last night left you confused?”

He lazily lifts a shoulder. He smells like stale Doritos. “You didn’t ask for your key back.”

Several beats of silence pass where we simply stare at one another.

I stick my hand out, palm up. “I want it back, then.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I want my key back, Adam.” I stare at him pointedly, then raise a brow. “Is that clear enough for you?”

His face quickly transforms from soft and hopeful to angry and bitter. I knew it was a poor decision to give him the spare key to my apartment, but it had been so long since I’d been in a true relationship with someone. Not the kind where they have a phobia of putting a label on it. Adam was quick to put a label on us. In fact, he was too fast when I think about it now.

Giant red fucking flag.

He stomps across the living room to the end of the sofa, searching through his suit draped over the arm. It’s been a habit of his to change out of his suit and tie after work, lounging around in nothing but his white undershirt and cotton briefs for the rest of the night while binging on sports documentaries and junk food.

He digs into the pockets of his pants before he stalks back over to me and drops the key into my hand with an angry grunt. He reminds me of a child who has been told he can’t have his ice cream before dinner.

“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping the key into the side pocket of my leggings. Then I begin scrubbing at the brown stain on my coffee table.

“So, that’s it then? We’re through?”

Stopping, I groan and straighten my back once again. I’ve never been much for talking, reserving my words for those I’m able to write down versus speaking out loud, but Adam is challenging me today, forcing me to be someone I’m not. Which is part of the reason I knew we weren’t going to work out. He never has understood me.

“Yes.” I deadpan. “We are over. Now, kindly leave.” I gesture toward the front door, then bend back down to wipe the rest of the brown stain off the table. I try not to gag when it mixes with another mysterious white substance I don’t even want to attempt to identify.

“I don’t understand. I thought we were going somewhere. I imagined proposing to you one day.”

“Seriously?” I shoot up, shocked by the sudden turn in conversation.

“Yes. I was going to tell you that I loved you.”

I press my hand to my forehead, running his confession over in my brain. We’ve only been dating for six weeks. How can he possibly love me? “We are seriously so far apart, it’s quite astonishing the distance.”

“So, you don’t love me?”

Oh. My. God.

“No, Adam, I don’t love you.” I make my point clear before returning to my cleaning. Silence descends upon us, the only sound coming from my scrubbing.

“You wouldn’t want to get married?”

I shake my head. “Someday, and with the right person.” But even then…

“And that person isn’t me?”

“No.”

Tension builds in the air. I can practically feel him stewing beside me.

My rejection must irritate him further because he finally breaks the silence when he says, “Unbelievable. You are unbelievable.”

My teeth dig into the side of my cheek, biting back the tears welling in my eyes. How did I end up here? I refuse to let Adam see them. I don’t want him to think they’re for him.

I really wish my grandmother was still here. Closing my eyes, I try to think of what she would say to me in this moment.

Straighten those shoulders of yours and hold your head high. Don’t ever allow anyone to walk all over you, Selene. You’re too beautiful, inside and out, to put up with shit like that.

I’ve never been the confrontational kind, but Adam has me testing even my own limits.

Aluminum cans crush under the weight of his feet as he stomps his way back over to his suit. I watch as he dramatically shakes out his suit pants before stepping into them with a huff. His cheeks are flaming red, and he won’t stop shaking his head. He’s so unkempt, even his hair still refuses to move.

“It’s going to take me almost two hours to get home at this time of day so I can get ready for the auction tonight.” He narrows his eyes but still refuses to look my way as he gestures toward his face, waving his fingers around. “I can’t go looking like this.”

I keep my thoughts to myself, that it’s his own fault he looks that way, because I don’t have the energy to fight him anymore. I’m hoping the fewer words that spill from my mouth, the fewer reasons there are for him to drag out this breakup more than it already has been.

He scoffs with disgust as he drapes his suit jacket over his arm and fists his tie in his large hands. He’s still covered in orange chip dust, so it’s hard to take him seriously, but if it wasn’t for the anger blazing in his stare, I would think he was joking.

“Again, you say nothing.” He curls his lip in disgust. “Is this how you’ve always been?”

I roll my eyes and pick up a handful of empty soda cans before dropping them into my trash can, which is already filled to the top—another mess Adam has left that I’ll have to clean up.

“Please just leave, Adam.” I mutter, returning to the sticky mess on my coffee table.

The one my grandmother insisted I keep after my parents died.

I didn’t plan on taking it then. I was angry for the way they left London and me behind, but my grandmother said that if I didn’t keep anything from them, I would regret it. Lord knows why I chose their coffee table of all things.

“If this is how you’ve always been, then it finally all makes sense.”

Heat blooms up my neck, and I stop wiping as I stand to face him, this time narrowing my eyes on his. “What suddenly makes sense?”

He lifts his chin, working his jaw. “Your sense of entitlement.”

I take a step back, feeling as if this puny little, Dorito-dusted man child is giving me whiplash.

“I’m not entitled. You’ve seen where I live.” I want to laugh.

In fact, I do. I let out a sarcastic huff of air as I look around, waving my arms at my cheap apartment. Sure, the paint is chipping and the hot water heater craps out at least once a month, but this place has become my home since the day I graduated college. It’s the place where I curled into the corner of every room, pouring my heart and soul into my first romance novel. Every penny I earn working at Charleigh’s flower shop goes to this place. It may be shit, but it’s mine.

“You are entitled. Entitled and pretentious.” Adam sticks an accusatory finger in my direction. “You walk around as if you think you’re better than everyone else in your little yoga outfits.” He gestures up and down the length of my body.

What the fuck is he talking about? “Yoga outfits are pretentious?”

He gives a sarcastic laugh, ignoring my question. “You think because everyone in that little group of yours are billionaires that it somehow makes you one of them too? Because you aren’t, Selene. You never will be. You live in this shithole apartment that not a single one of them would ever bother to step foot in. You’re just as lowly as me—the people who are the blood of this city. Those billionaires don’t keep this city alive, we do. To them you’re nothing but another piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their Armani shoes.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Adam.” I try not to let my voice waver because, even though I hate to admit it, Adam’s accusations hit me harder than they should. I’ve lived a lifetime of trauma, and my best friends are who have kept me afloat for the last decade of my life. While working at Charleigh’s flower shop isn’t my passion, at one point in time, she was the only person who managed to bring a smile out of me every day. Then entered Julianna, before London finally moved to New York City permanently. For a time, my world was isolated and lonely. But now, even though I may be shy to my core, I’m certainly not lonely. I’m simply grieving.

Adam hurling endless insults my way about my life sparks anger in my gut. Aside from the confusing grief surrounding my parents, I miss my grandmother. Fuck, I miss her.

I cross my arms and stare at him blankly. “We’re over, Adam. Leave.”

He nods and steps over a pile of cans trailing between the sofa and the coffee table. He stops beside me and leans forward, bringing his face closer to mine. I look into his eyes but try not to gag at the smell of stale corn chips when he breathes.

“Your so-called friend Julianna had her one of her cronies drop off a dress for tonight’s auction.” He glances toward the hallway. “I would say I’m surprised you’re going tonight, but I’m not.”

“You’re going to the auction too, so don’t act like I’m someone special. I’m not.”

“I’m going for the paper. It’s my job. What’s your excuse?”

“I don’t owe you any explanation. Especially not after you’ve trashed my apartment and refuse to accept that I ended whatever this was.”

“You’re right, you don’t need to explain.” He holds his hand up, backing away from me and toward the door. “There’s that sense of entitlement I’m talking about. But let me guess… the Capuletis are your friends, and you owe them your support?”

He wraps his hand around the doorknob and jerks the door open, tearing it from the frame. Before leaving, he stops and glances over his shoulder. “You aren’t one of them, Selene. You never will be. When you’re ready to stop playing dress up, call me, and maybe we can try this again.”

Adam slams my door shut with such force it causes the key hook by the door to rattle against the drywall. A piece of damaged wall flakes off and falls to the floor. I stare at the door and squeeze my eyes shut when my vision waters. Despite the strength I have and the mantra I’m repeating in my head, I can’t stop the tears from forming. Finally, one breaks free, slipping down my cheek.

I’m not sad over my breakup with Adam. I’m relieved.

He’s the first person I’ve dated in a long time, and while it sucks that it didn’t last, I’m thankful we’re through.

Maybe we can try this again.

His final words linger in the air, letting me know that if I were to even give him the slightest hint of another chance, he’d take it.

I shudder at the thought. My stomach flips, though it could be from the lingering scent of stale chips and soda in the air. Once I’ve gathered myself, I open the two windows in my living room to air out the stink, then lock the chain on my front door, just in case Adam made a spare key without my knowledge. I doubt he would have gone to those lengths, but I wasn’t expecting him to find him lounging on my couch like a vegetable when I got home, either.

Remembering the errands I ran before I came home, I grab my new necklace out of my purse and carry it to my bedroom. I set it on top of my dresser and find the dress Adam said Julianna’s assistant dropped off earlier. I shoot a quick text to Marvin, the maintenance manager in my building, to let him know my hot water isn’t working again, then I turn my attention back to the dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door.

I have no idea what it looks like since it’s wrapped in a black bag. Orange streaks of chip dust coat the outer edges, and I grunt in frustration before I brush them off, then pull the zipper to reveal the stunning dress inside. Nothing but butter yellow silk fabric pours out. It reminds me of the gown Kate Hudson wore in How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. I gasp and check my phone, opening my girls’ chat. I send Julianna a thank you and preemptively promise to send her a picture of me wearing it once I’ve showered, done my hair, and applied my makeup, knowing she’ll ask for it. Funny, considering she’ll see me wearing it within a matter of hours, too.

Warmth spreads across my body, the heaviness of today waning with every passing second. I admire the gown Julianna is letting me borrow, knowing Adam couldn’t have been further from the truth with his accusations. Sure, I don’t have a lot of money, certainly not as much as my best friends, but I’m capable of taking care of myself. I can afford my own place, and regardless of the money they have, my best friends are incredible. They shouldn’t be judged based on how many digits are in their bank accounts.

Adam’s words echo in my mind, though. I’m not entitled or pretentious. Maybe he was hurt that he wasn’t the one for me. I’m still rocked with disbelief that he considered proposing to me… even after I broke up with him.

And society calls women clingy.

A little twinge of guilt sits at the back of my mind for hurting him, though not too much. I know what I want and won’t settle for just anyone. The right man is out there waiting for me. I just have to be patient and focus on what I know makes me happy now. He’ll come along when I’m least expecting it. At least, that’s what happens in all the great romance novels, right?

Marvin gets back to me twenty minutes later, letting me know the hot water heater should be fixed enough for me to take my shower now. So, I turn the water on, sit on the toilet, and wait for it to heat up. While scrolling through my phone, I pull up the social media post, announcing the auction Julianna’s putting on tonight for Scribe Magazine—her brother Holt’s magazine.

The post has nearly half a million likes. I double tap the heart icon before scrolling through the comments, nearly all of which are asking if Holt will be there and if he’s single.

I mean, I can’t blame them. He’s handsome as hell and has a jaw that could cut glass. His eyes make the muscles on the insides of your thighs twitch with every glance your way. The man is hot as sin if not a little arrogant.

Blinking away my wandering thoughts, I smile to myself. Holt Capuleti will forever be single. He never allows a woman to stay long enough to give the media an opportunity to speculate.

Steam billows out from behind the shower curtain, letting me know I have precisely five minutes of hot water time, and to make the most of it. Leaving my phone open to Julianna’s auction post, I shed myself out of my pretentious yoga pants and bra and step inside the shower, but not before glancing once more at the buttery yellow fabric spilling out of the bag on the back of my bedroom door.

Pretentious and entitled, my ass.

I just have incredible friends.