Page 74 of What You left in Me

“I’m not alone,” I repeat. “We just covered this, Finnick.”

I stare at the seam where wall meets floor.

I want to lean into him so badly my teeth hurt. I want to be the girl who doesn’t care who’s watching. I want to be the woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“This is wrong,” I whisper, because saying it makes me feel like I’ve paid some toll to the universe.

“Wrong,” he agrees, and it’s almost gentle. “Doesn’t make it less.”

The backs of our hands brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. Static crackles up my arm like the floor has a secret live wire. His breath hitches. Mine goes missing.

“Ariane.” Mom’s voice slides down the corridor, not loud, but inevitable. I jerk back like I’ve touched a stove. Finn’s jaw tightens; the tendon stands out like he’s about to bite through it.

“I have to…” I start.

He nods once. Permission, dismissal, benediction, I don’t know. Either way, I go.

Back in the waiting room, Mom has her phone tucked under her chin as she reaches for a napkin, and she’s talking in that careful tone she uses when she plans the world, like God’s assistant with editorial control. When she sees me, she ends the call without goodbye, which for her is a sign of emotional distress.

“Sweetheart.” She lowers her voice, softens her face a fraction. “I know this is difficult, but Richard would want us steady. We can’t let him come out of surgery into chaos.”

“I know.” My voice is steady enough to fool most people. She is not most people. She tips her head the way a hawk does before deciding if the mouse is worth it.

Again, her gaze drops to my hand. The skin where the ring used to be looks lighter, like a ghost circle.

“Is your ring off because you’ve lost weight? I can have my jeweler resize it by tomorrow,” she says, disturbingly calm, and I hear the capital letters inyour ringlike it’s a character in our family play.

“We broke it off,” I say.

I say it the way you sayI took the trash out,like it’s a chore you can cross off a list. The words drop between us like a plate that might or might not shatter.

There is a beat of silence that turns long enough for the clock to chew two clicks off our lives. The mauve cardiganwoman glances at us in that browsing way people have when they want to be sure they’re witnessing something worth retelling.

Mom smiles. It is not a kind smile. It’s a strategic one. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.” My mouth is dry again. “I mean… we ended it. Julian and I. It’s over.”

“Because of what?” Her voice drops. “Because of one argument? Because he works too much? Ariane, every man…”

I laugh. It’s not pretty. “You know that’s not it.”

“Ariane.”

“We ended it,” I say again. “It’s not… I’m not marrying him.”

A muscle flutters in her cheek. “You will speak to Julian. You will explain that you were overwrought. You will…”

“I saw some messages, Mom,” I say. My voice is flat now, a knife laid on a table. “I saw what he wrote to someone else. It wasn’t one argument.”

She goes very still. For a moment, I think I see her recalculating. Notmy daughter’s heart is broken,buthow do we manage the story.The thought makes my stomach tip.

“People make mistakes,” she says finally.

I snort at the word.Mistakes.What, he tripped and fell penis-first into another woman?

Her eyes narrow, a door closing. “And what do you plan to do now? Throw away everything we’ve built? Richard…”

“Richard is in surgery,” I say, and my voice breaks onRichard,which annoys me, but there it is. “We can talk about the seating chart for my ruined life later.”