Chapter 9

There’s a bag in his hands.

A paper bag.

And not just any bag. A very specific, orange-and-green printed bag with a little smear of curry oil on the corner. I know that bag like I know the birthmarks on my own butt.

That’s Punjabi Palace takeout.

“Peace offering,” Monty says, holding it up like a white flag that smells like garlic naan and emotional manipulation.

My stomach, betrayer of the century, growls so loudly I swear the hallway echoes with its shame.

I clutch my bathrobe tighter around me like it’ll protect me from the scent. It won’t. The rich, buttery perfume of chicken tikka and spice wafts into the doorway like a seductive little ghost.

“Seriously?” I hiss, stepping back an inch. “You show up with my kryptonite?”

He shrugs, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You always said it was your death row meal.”

I eye the bag. Then eye him. Then the bag again.

My stomach rumbles again, louder this time, and I can literally taste the sad, undercooked mac and cheese that I abandoned on the floor an hour ago. I curse under my breath.

“Fine,” I snap. “But only because I’m starving and I burned the roof of my mouth on cardboard cheese earlier. This is not forgiveness. This is sustenance.”

I hate cooking. Always have. Even as a kid, I was the girl who burned Pop-Tarts and thought boiling water had a smell.

He nods solemnly, and I step aside like I’m letting in a raccoon who knows how to use DoorDash.

He walks in like it’s still his apartment, like he knows where everything is, which, to be fair, he does. I watch him unload the food onto the island, then rummage through my silverware drawer like I didn’t cry over him on that exact countertop a week ago.

I grab a plate and dig in immediately, nearly moaning when the first bite of butter chicken hits my tongue.

God. Damn. Him.

“So,” I say through a mouthful of naan, pointing the fork at him like a weapon, “talk.”

He looks startled. “Now?”

“No, Monty. Let’s wait until I’m in a food coma and you’ve moved back in. Yes, now.”

He runs a hand through his damp hair again. Classic Nervous Monty. “I’m sorry.”

I roll my eyes so hard I see next week.

“Wow. Original.”

“Charlotte… I’m sorry. Like, really sorry. Not just ‘I got caught’, sorry. I was confused. Lonely. And you were always working, always busy, and I felt like you didn’t need me anymore.”

“Stop.”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping closer. “I know I messed everything up, and I want to make it up to you. I want to—”

“STOP.”

I set my plate down, hard and wipe my hands on a paper towel.

“You called me, Monty,” I say. “You left a voicemail. You sounded like you were being chased by ghosts. What were you trying to say?”

He blinks.

“Voicemail?”

I stare at him. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not, I don’t remember…”

I whip out my phone, scroll to the message I’ve replayed so many times it’s burned into my frontal lobe, and hit play.

The voicemail starts. That shaky, raspy Monty voice saying “I just, God, Charlotte, I need to tell you—” and then cuts off into nothing.

I watch his face the whole time.

He looks confused. Then weirdly soft. Then a little too sincere.

“I wanted to say I love you.”

My jaw clenches.

“You what?”

“I panicked,” he says, hands out like I’m about to throw the chutney at him. “I thought if I could just tell you how I felt-”

My left eye starts to twitch.

“You had me spiraling for a WEEK because you forgot to say ‘I love you’ on a voicemail?!”

He flinches. “It wasn’t like that.”

My voice is rising. My hands are shaking. My butter chicken is getting cold.

“I thought you were dying. I thought you gave me an STD. I thought you were calling to confess that you were marrying her, or God, I don’t know, something important. But no. You just dropped an unfinished ‘I love you’ and went on with your life like it was a voicemail from Walgreens!”

“Get out,” I say, standing up so fast my chair screeches. “Get out of my apartment, and take your half-assed apology with you.”

“I—”

“OUT.”

“Charlotte—”

“OUT!”

He stumbles toward the door, bag still in hand, and just as he crosses the threshold, he turns.

“Can I at least take the food—?”

I slam the door.

So hard the naan flutters like a dying leaf in the air.

A week goes by quickly and Monty’s love bombing me so hard I’m starting to think he took a masterclass in it. There are flowers on my doorstep. Little “thinking of you” texts with emojis he never used to send. Memes I would’ve found funny two months ago. Playlists with our old songs. The soup his mom used to make when I got colds.

And the worst part?

It’s working. Not all the way. But enough.

And I hate that I’m... responding.

We were together for years. He was my boyfriend. My best friend. My “will you kill the spider in the bathroom” person.

So yeah. I feel wrecked.

And I hate it.

So when Emily texts me that she needs help picking an outfit for her art show, I say yes immediately.

Not just because her wardrobe looks like it was designed by an old librarian with seasonal depression, but because I need the distraction.

“Okay, but why is everything beige?” I ask, holding up a pleated skirt that looks like it belongs in an antique shop.

Emily shrugs. “Beige is timeless.”

“Beige is sad.”

We’re at Nordstrom and already five dresses deep into dressing room chaos. Callie would’ve killed to be here, but she’s off doing whatever mysterious assistant-y thing she does when she’s “on deadline.”

“I just want to look like someone who knows what they’re doing,” Emily mutters.

“You’re a literal genius painter,” I snap. “You don’t need to look like a New York socialite. You just need to look expensive.”

Two hours, three fitting room attendants, and way too many swipe taps later, Emily ends up with a forest green pantsuit that makes her look like a badass gallery director who drinks whiskey and ruins men.

We celebrate with greasy hotdogs from a sketchy cart on 9th.

And that’s when my phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

I stare at it.

Emily raises an eyebrow. “If it’s Monty, I swear I’ll throw your phone into traffic.”

I answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this… Elle Rivera?”