Page 529 of Bad Prince
A pitcher will break a hand punching drywall.
Some fraternity will get caught doing something embarrassing with a live chicken.
Something will replace me.
I believe that right up until the exact moment I see them.
That’s the real punch.
Not the posts.
Not the whispering.
Not the pity.
Them.
I’m cutting across the quad on the way back from treatment, earbuds in, sunglasses on, phone in hand, fully committed to the fiction that I am alone in the world and unbothered by all men everywhere.
Then I look up.
And there they are.
Halfway across the brick path under a row of sycamores gone gold at the edges.
Stella and Tristan.
Standing close.
Too close for ambiguity.
Too close for denial.
Too close for any of the old lies I used to tell myself about timing and possibility and how maybe if I was patient enough, polished enough, appropriate enough, he would finally look at me like that.
Because that’s what hits hardest.
Not that he’s with her.
How he’s with her.
He’s standing over her in that big, controlled, alpha-male way men like Tristan do when they’re claiming space around a woman they care about without even realizing it. One hand low at her waist. His shoulders angled slightly toward her, body making a barrier against the passing crowd like instinct already appointed him her personal line of defense.
Then Stella says something.
I can’t hear it.
But I see his face change.
I see him look down at her, eyes softening in a way I used to dream about like a stupid girl in lip gloss and optimism.
His fingers lift and cup her cheek.
Not careless.
Not flirtatious.
Tender.
