Chapter 18 EIGHTEEN
Lena’s POV
The apartment feels cavernous without Avery’s chaos. No off-key pop anthems blasting from her Bluetooth speaker, no clatter of cocktail shakers at midnight, and no glitter bombs on the bathroom counter. It’s the first time in forever she won’t be around. The weekend yawns open like a black hole, her absence a dull ache. She left yesterday for that Hamptons bartending gig and won’t be back until next weekend. I’m alone with my thoughts, my ramen leftovers, and the ghost of Sebastian’s voice from his office (“I find it very insulting…”).
I’m sprawled on the couch in mismatched socks, ankle finally pain-free, picking at cold pizza crust when my phone dings. Wes. Bethesda Fountain, noon? Dying to see you. Shit. That’s true. I completely forgot we were meeting. The text glares at me, his puppy-dog eagerness leaking through the screen. Part of me wants to ghost, let him wait under the angel statue until he turns to stone. But no. I need closure, a clean cut, and the pest gone for good. I fire back: I’ll be there. No emoji, no warmth.
Getting ready is a ritual of armor. Shower steam fogs the mirror; I wipe it clear and stare at myself—hazel eyes tired but sharp, chestnut hair still damp. Simple yet nice: high-waisted dark jeans, a cream cable-knit sweater that skims my curves without screaming try-hard, and black ankle boots now that the sprain’s healed. Minimal makeup—just mascara, tinted lip balm, and a swipe of concealer under the eyes to hide the Sebastian-induced sleeplessness. I check the mirror one last time. Pretty but untouchable. No weakness for Wes.
The PATH ride to Manhattan is packed with weekenders—families with strollers, tourists snapping selfies, and a guy strumming a guitar for tips. I lean against the pole, earbuds in but no music, just the rumble of the train matching my pulse. I intentionally make it twenty minutes late, weaving through Central Park’s winding paths. Autumn leaves crunch underfoot, the air crisp with hot-dog-vendor smoke and distant buskers. The Bethesda Fountain looms ahead, water sparkling in the sunlight, the angel statue serene above it all.
Wes is already there, pacing the stone railing, hands shoved in his bomber jacket pockets. He spots me, face lighting up like I’m the answer to every prayer. Tall, blond, with that all-American charm that once made my stomach flip—now it just knots with disgust. He hurries over, pulling out a chair at a café table under a red umbrella, the kind with overpriced lattes and Instagram-worthy views. “Lena,” he breathes, voice soft, hopeful, like I’m salvation. I sit without thanks, crossing my arms tight over my chest.
A waiter materializes, notepad poised. Wes orders a burger, extra fries, and Coke—no ice. I wave him off. “Just a smoothie. Mango, no ice.” Not staying long anyway. The waiter nods and vanishes into the crowd.
Wes leans forward, elbows on the table, blue eyes pleading. “Thank you for seeing me. I know I don’t deserve it, but—”
“Get straight to business,” I cut in, voice flat as the fountain’s surface, staring at the water to avoid his face. A duck paddles by, oblivious.
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair, the blond strands falling messily. “Okay. I’m sorry about how everything went down. I was… desperate. You couldn’t make it to my game, and Sienna—she seduced me. Things got out of hand. I’d never intentionally hurt you, Lena. It was a mistake, a stupid, drunk mistake.”
I whip my head around, fury igniting like a match. “Are you trying to justify cheating? Blaming me for missing your game?”
“No!” He backpedals, hands up, palms out. “God, no. I just… I really want you back. I’m not with Sienna anymore. It’s you I love. Always you.”
“You cheated, Wes.” My voice slices sharp, drawing a glance from a nearby table. “Do you even have any idea what that means? You cheated on me—with Sienna—while I was your girlfriend.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, voice cracking, eyes glistening like he’s the wounded one.
“But you did.” The words burn coming out. “And worse—you told Sienna everything. Our relationship. How we’d never had sex. Add the sloppy head to the list.”
He goes deadpan, his face draining of color, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “What? How… who told you?”
“How do I know? Are you fucking kidding me right now, Wesley Lancaster?” I lean in, voice venomous, low enough not to scream but sharp enough to cut. “That’s what you care about? How I found out?”
“Babe, I didn’t—”
“Don’t you ever call me babe, Wesley!” I snap, loud enough that a mom at the next table shields her kid’s ears. “I am not your babe! Don’t you dare.”
Wes presses his lips together, running a hand down his face, stubble rasping under his palm. “Look, Lena. I’m sorry. Truly. If you just give me one last chance—one last chance to prove I’ll never hurt you again. Please, give us a chance.”
“Well, news flash, Wesley, we’re done.”
“Don’t call me that,” he pleads, voice small, eyes wide. “I can’t remember the last time you called me Wesley. It was Wes.”
“You think I care about that?” I laugh, bitter and loud, drawing more stares. “I don’t fucking care anymore.”
My voice rises, causing a scene—nearby tables hush, phones angle subtly, and a toddler points. Wes glances over his shoulder, face flushing red. “Can we talk in a more private place?”
“Go to hell, Wesley. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t ever show your face again.” I stand, chair scraping, smoothie untouched, mango pulp swirling like my rage.
“Lena, wait—” He reaches, but I’m gone, storming through the park, leaves swirling in my wake. “Lena! Please!” His voice fades behind me, desperate, but I don’t answer, don’t look back.
Tears prick my sockets, hot and traitorously close. I can’t believe I’m about to cry—over him? No. Over the betrayal, the humiliation, the year wasted. I flag a cab instead of the bus—extra bucks be damned, I need privacy now. “Hoboken,” I mutter, sliding in, slamming the door.
The driver pulls away, and the tears begin to freely flow.