Becca

The smell of fries and diner coffee still clings to my nose as I drop the takeout bag onto the kitchen counter. I’ve already showered, scrubbed the scent off my skin, and pulled on my softest sweatshirt. But the ache in my chest? No amount of soap or softness can scrub that away.

I move on autopilot, unpacking the food onto paper plates and setting the plastic utensils on the counter. Two burgers. Two orders of curly fries with cheese sauce. Two slices of cherry pie I wasn’t hungry for but brought anyway, because Nick said yesterday he hadn’t had a real dessert in weeks.

The apartment is quiet. No music. No TV. Just the low hum of the fridge and the distant creak of pipes adjusting to the cold. It’s almost peaceful, if not for the way my nerves feel like they’re humming too, tuned to a frequency only I can hear.

I catch sight of the Christmas tree out of the corner of my eye and immediately look away. The lights are off. The ornaments still glint faintly in the dim light of the room, like little pieces of the dream life Shane and I shared, just before reality came to steal it all away. 

I stare down at the fries like they’re the answer to the ache throbbing inside me. But then, the sound of boots on the stairs draws my attention. A moment later, the door from the garage creaks open, and Nick steps inside, bringing with him the faint scent of engine oil and cold air.

“Smells like food in here,” he says, his tone easy and warm, like he hasn’t just walked into a pressure cooker.

I nod without looking at him. “I brought dinner.”

He steps closer and glances down at the plates. “Is that grease I see? And fake cheese? Be still, my heart. You’re spoiling me.”

Despite myself, my mouth twitches. “Figured it was your love language.”

“Damn right it is.” He nudges a napkin into place and starts helping without being asked. “Need me to grab drinks?”

I shake my head. “Already did. They’re in the bag by the door.”

Nick doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask how I’m doing or if I’ve heard anything. He just grabs the drinks, and it’s like he’s suddenly the buffer between me and the breakdown that feels as inevitable as snow in winter.

When he comes back, we sit across from each other at the small table by the window. The food on my plate grows colder with every bite I have to force down. I keep my eyes on the burger in front of me, chewing like it's a chore I have no choice but to complete. Nick, on the other hand, eats like he’s thoroughly enjoying it—something I both admire and resent.

“So,” he says between bites, “I’ve heard you have quite the fan club at the diner. Do all your customers flirt with you, or just the ones over seventy?”

I snort softly. “Only the bold ones. There’s this one guy—you might know him, Mr. Earl. Elise Michaelson’s grandfather?” 

Nick nods, a lopsided grin already tugging at his mouth.

“Well, he tips me in scratch-off tickets. Says he’s hoping I’ll win enough so he can someday tell everyone he bought me a house. Oh—and he calls me ‘his angel in an apron,’ and reminds me every shift that he was once crowned the most eligible bachelor of his high school class. Which, as he puts it, ‘was decades before he peaked.’”

Nick chuckles. “He sounds like a blast.”

“He’s quite the flirt, that’s for sure. Just last week, he asked if I’d go to Atlantic City with him. Told me he needed arm candy to impress his son, who runs one of the fancy casinos, but hasn’t been down to visit in over a decade. Apparently,” I shift into my best old-man drawl, “‘he’s gotten too big for his britches and thinks he’s too good for small-town life.’”

Nick laughs.

“And what did you say?”

“I said I’d consider it, but only if he hit the jackpot first.” I shrug. “Told him I’d need the money to buy the finest dress and shoes, you know, to really sell the fantasy.” I can’t help but smile, amused by the memory.

Nick throws his head back, and the sound of his laughter eases some of the tension curled tight in my chest. We keep talking—about the diner, about some paper he’s writing for class, about the frozen pipe that burst in his dorm just before winter break. Then, about Columbia and campus life.

Small talk. Harmless and light. A superficial conversation meant to muffle the ticking clock as the night inches closer to the moment that might forever change the future Shane and I both want.

Beneath the conversation, the silence stretches. It’s not awkward. Not tense. Just… full. Like we both know exactly what we’re not saying. Shane’s name lingers at the edge of every subject, like a ghost whose name we’re too afraid to say aloud.

I try not to think about the time. About where he is. What he’s doing. Who he’s with.

I stab a fry a little too hard, smearing ketchup across my plate. Nick pretends not to notice, and I’m grateful.

And that—that’s the thing I appreciate most about him. He never pushes. Never tries to fill the silence with pointless questions or platitudes. He just exists in it. Beside me. With me. Quiet and constant, like a lighthouse in a storm—never demanding to be seen, just there to guide me if I need help finding my way back.

A half hour later, I’m stacking takeout containers in the trash when my phone buzzes against the counter. The screen lights up with Shane’s name, and my breath catches.

“Hey,” I answer, barely on the second ring, already moving toward the far end of the kitchen, like a few extra feet might make this moment feel more private. “Are you… are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” His voice is low, rushed, and muffled—like he’s speaking from the inside of a closet or small hallway, trying not to be overheard. “I’ve only got a minute.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “Where are you?”

“At the house with my mother, the event planner, the photographers… it’s a goddamn circus.” He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding that breath since we last spoke yesterday. “I hate this, Becca.”

“I know,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. “I hate it too.”

There’s a pause. Then, softer—pained in a way that makes me want to run to him and rescue him from this twisted nightmare—he says, “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” 

My throat tightens.

“Listen, pretty girl,” he says, urgency bleeding into every word. “You have to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Stay off social media tonight. And tomorrow. Please.” He swallows audibly. “There’ll be pictures. Maybe even a livestream. It’s all a performance. A lie. Just… don’t look, baby. For me. Please don’t look.”

With the desperation in his voice, I don’t even think twice. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him in this moment. So I nod before remembering he can’t see me. “Okay.” 

“I love you,” he says, and instantly my eyes burn. “Whatever they post—whatever headlines you see—remember it’s not real. You’re my real, Becca. You’re my heart. The only woman I’ll ever love.”

My hand presses to my chest. “Shane, I…” But the words won’t come. Even now, with everything hanging over our heads—with him hurting, with me breaking–I still can’t say them. 

God, why the hell can’t I just say it?

Tears slip silently from the corners of my eyes, and I don’t even try to stop them. 

“I already know, pretty girl. You don’t have to say it. I already know how much you love me.”

“Shane… I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I owe you the words, I just… I’m so scared.” 

“I know. And it’s okay.” His voice gentles. “You remember what I told you? About the stars?”

I smile, even through the tears, as my heart cracks even more. “You said I’m your Andromeda.”

“And I’m your Perseus,” he finishes, voice breaking. “Our love is written in the stars, baby. No one can change that. No one.”

I close my eyes. “Don’t let them break you, Shane.”

“I won’t. They can’t anyway. I’m not theirs to break. I’m yours, Becca.” He exhales, the sound heavy with regret. “Time’s up, pretty girl. I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

“Wait—Shane—”

But the line goes dead. 

And just like that, he’s gone.

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