Page 52 of Buttons

Something has changed in me since leaving Julian. The heat that would normally scald my face in embarrassment redirects itself, transforming into clarity. I see Carmella now. Her desperation is sad. While living my life and helping little beings I’ve fallen in love with, she’s obsessed with things that honestly don’t matter.

Sarah pushes back her chair, the legs scraping against the floor with an angry screech. “Listen, lady!”

I gently place my hand on her arm. “It’s okay.”

I stand slowly. Not to match her height—she still has two inches and designer heels on me—but to claim my safety. Everyone else is oblivious to our small drama.

“You know, Carmella,” I say, my voice steady and clear, “I used to wonder what Julian saw in you that he didn’t see in me. I used to compare myself to you constantly.”

Surprise flickers across her face, but then she catches herself and adjusts her expression.

“There’s no comparison, darling,” she says with dismissiveness. “Julian and I simply make sense together. We always have. You were only an interlude. We’re going to dinner tonight, you know.”

Two months ago, those words would have destroyed me. Today, they barely register.

“That’s exactly it,” I continue, as if she’s made my point for me. “On paper, you’re perfect for him. You have the rightconnections, the right look, the right background. You’re exactly what Julian thought he wanted.” I meet her gaze directly, something I never would have done in my former life. “I understand now that what Julian wants isn’t what Julian needs, and I feel sorry for you.”

Her composure cracks. “Sorry for me? I’m not the one going through a divorce.”

Neither am I. At least not yet.

“First of all,Ileft him, and you were never the reason Julian and I separated. I left him because I finally realized I deserved more.” I take a small step back in a genuine desire to end this conversation. “And you deserve more than being his rebound publicity stunt. But that’s for you to figure out.”

I turn away from her, toward the counter where fresh pastries glisten behind the glass. “Excuse me,” I say. “My friend and I are having coffee. I’m going to grab a snack, and when I come back, I expect you to be gone.”

I walk away, leaving her standing by our table. Behind me, I hear Sarah make a noise between a gasp and a chuckle.

The barista smiles as I approach. “What can I get you?”

“Two cheese danishes,” I say, suddenly hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.

As the barista grabs the danishes, I feel rather than see Carmella’s exit. The café door opens and closes with that same chime. I don’t look back. Her opinion of me has exactly zero weighted score in the life I’m building now.

When I return to the table, Sarah’s eyes are wide. “Wow! That was the most politely brutal takedown I’ve ever witnessed. Way better than dumping lukewarm coffee on her. You’re my hero.”

I set the pastry plate between us. “I surprised myself, too,” I admit. “I didn’t know I had it in me.”

“Well, I did,” Sarah says, breaking off a piece of cheese-filled pastry. “I saw it the first day you walked into that shelter lookinglike you’d never scooped cat litter in your life but were absolutely determined to learn.”

I avoid telling her that she’s right. About the cat litter, that is. Instead, I smile, taking a bite of my danish. “You know what’s strange? Seeing her didn’t hurt like I expected. I truly do feel bad for her.”

“Because you’ve grown,” Sarah says simply, “and she’s still playing high school games.”

“Exactly. Wasting a perfectly good Thursday morning stalking her friend’s ex just to tell her they’re going to dinner tonight? It’s sad.”

“She’s insecure,” Sarah says, waving her danish before popping a piece into her mouth. “Secure women don’t have to rub dates into other women’s faces. I bet this dinner isn’t as cozy as she wants you to believe.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying our danishes and coffee. No one else seems to have noticed our confrontation, and if they did, they’ve already moved on.

“So,” Sarah says eventually, wiping sugar from her fingers, “where were we before we were rudely interrupted? Oh right, Spoon the hamster making a makeshift toilet on the restaurant table.”

And just like that, we slip back into our conversation. When Sarah suggests we make these coffee dates a weekly tradition, I agree without checking a calendar. The simple act of saying “yes” because I want to is liberating.

“Same time next week?” she confirms as we gather our things to leave.

“Absolutely,” I say, wrapping my scarf around my neck. “Though maybe we should try that place on Maple Street instead. I hear their donuts are amazing.”

“Look at you, making decisions,” Sarah teases, bumping her shoulder against mine as we walk toward the door. “Next thingyou know, you’ll be choosing your own nail polish color without consulting Google Images.”