July

Another breakup. Another lesson I won’t learn.

I should’ve left him first. Should’ve read the signs—hell, I did read them. The late texts, the half-hearted excuses, the way he always held his phone just out of view. And yet, I still let myself be surprised when I saw him at the bar, hands all over some other woman, like I never even existed. Like I was just another placeholder until something shinier came along. It’s fine. It’s always fine. He was too rich, too pretty, too full of himself to be anything but temporary. I knew that. But it still stings. And that’s what pisses me off the most—that no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care, I always end up here anyway. Dressed for a night out that isn’t happening. Drinking alone in a hotel bar that wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan.

I sigh, swirling my whiskey, watching the way the ice clinks against the glass. The bar’s almost empty, just the hum of soft music and the occasional shuffle of the tired-looking bartender wiping down glasses. Then my gaze catches on them—four seats down, nursing their own drink. Different. Steady. The kind of person who doesn’t make you chase them just to be noticed.

Not my type. Not even close.

But right now, maybe that’s exactly why I let my gaze linger a little too long. Maybe that’s why my lips curl into something like amusement as I tilt my head, letting my voice come out smooth, easy, like my heart isn’t still clenched between my ribs. "What’s your excuse for drinking alone tonight, sweetheart?"