Reckoning

I didn't respond to her message.

We need to talk?

She doesn't get to say that. Not after leaving and crawling back like nothing happened.But deep down, I always knew this moment would come.

She left. I stayed.

And now she's back and I'm the one who has to face her.

BGC. 4:00 PM.

One of those sleek, overpriced cafés nestled in Rockwell. Quiet enough for a confrontation disguised as catching up. Expensive enough to pretend this wasn't war.

Of course she picked the place.

I arrived ten minutes early, ordered a black coffee, and claimed a table by the window. I wore a crisp white blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, nude heels, a low sleek bun, and my favorite matte lipstick, the same shade Troy once said made me look like I could command the world.

I looked calm. Unbothered. Like I didn't lose sleep over this meeting.

She arrived five minutes late.

Trina Pascua.

Fresh from whatever failed dream she chased abroad. Her hair was styled in soft, deliberate waves. A cream blazer hugged her figure over a fitted silk top. Gold accents. Neutral makeup. And that scent—wealth and calculated femininity.

"Hi, Maxine." She smiled like we were old friends catching up over lunch.

"Trina." I didn't stand nor smile.

She sat across from me, placing her designer bag delicately on the chair beside her. Her movements were measured like she rehearsed it a hundred times. She folded her hands on the table like she was about to deliver a well-prepared speech.

"Thank you for meeting me."

"I didn't come for you," I said coolly. "I came to hear what lie you're about to tell."

Her lips twitched, a ghost of amusement. "I expected you to be defensive."

"No. Just bored."

She smiled again. Still fake and empty.

"I'll be direct," she said. "Troy and I... we're seeing each other again."

I stirred my coffee slowly. "How curated of you."

"That dinner photo I posted? That was from last night. He made reservations at Alta. He remembered it was my favorite spot."

Of course he did.

"How sweet," I said mildly. "Though I imagine he remembered more than just your favorite restaurant."

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

I leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "You posted that photo of you two smiling over candlelight. The same night I was washing him off my skin."

Her smile faltered—barely, but I saw it.

"He came to me the night before that fancy dinner," I continued. "Three rounds. No sleep. So if he looked a little tired, now you know why."

She adjusted her grip on her cup.

"You think that means something?"

"It means he hasn't chosen."

"Or it means you're just the habit he hasn't broken."

I smiled. "Funny. He still breaks for me."

Her expression tightened, but she kept it controlled.

"Maxine," she said coolly. "He was mine before he was ever yours."

"And yet you left."

"I left to chase a future. One of us had the courage to try."

"And the other stayed behind to pick up what you shattered."

The smallest flicker of irritation crossed her face.

"You're back now," I said. "But let's not pretend it's because of love. You failed abroad, didn't you? Couldn't make it. So you ran back to the last thing that ever felt like home."

"You don't know anything about what I went through."

"I know enough. I know that while you were gone, he shut down. Buried himself in work, alcohol... and me."

Silence stretched between us.

"You think I don't know I was the rebound?" I said. "That I was just the bandage while he bled for you?"

She didn't answer.

"Well, at least I stayed. I endured the worst of him. And now that he's halfway healed, you waltz back in and expect a seat at the table you abandoned?"

She held my gaze. "I didn't come here to fight."

"Then don't pretend you're not here to win."

She sighed softly. "I just want things to be clear between us."

"So do I. That's why I'm telling you—he's still not yours."

"You think sex gives you power over him?"

"No. But it gives me access. It gives me presence. He still shows up at my door when pretending to be okay wears him down."

"He's confused."

"He's a man. They usually are. But his body? It never lies."

She inhaled sharply through her nose.

"You want to fix him?" I said. "Be my guest. Just don't act surprised when pieces of me start bleeding through."

Trina leaned forward, voice calm but deliberate. "I know him, Maxine. I know how he thinks and I know what this is. He's using you. Because I haven't given myself to him yet. That drives him mad."

Ah. There it is.

"That's what you're proud of?" I asked. "That you're still withholding? That's why he crawls back to me?"

"It means I still have control."

"No," I whispered. "It means you're afraid. Afraid that the moment you finally give yourself to him... he might not come back for more."

I grinned when I saw her stay silent.

"You look down on me for giving in," I said. "But at least I'm not living in denial."

"Maybe," she said. "But he still looks at me like I'm his forever."

I stood up slowly, letting her watch every inch of the movement.

"Then keep convincing yourself of that," I said. "But if you ever feel him drift during those candlelit dinners, it's because he's remembering how my name tastes in his mouth."

Her lips parted—just slightly.

"You think you're fighting me for him," I added. "But I'm not even in the war anymore. He's the one who can't let go."

I turned to leave, heart pounding but posture unshaken.

Just as I reached the door, her voice came—quiet, sharp, and meant to wound.

"He still calls your name in his sleep."

I froze.

Only for a second.

Then I turned my head slightly, just enough for her to hear me when I said—

"Funny. He never said it when he was with me."

And with that, I walked out, heels clicking across the marble floor like punctuation to a sentence I never needed to finish.

She could keep her delusions and fantasy.

As for me?

I was finally done begging to be chosen.