Chapter 1
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Camryn repeats the mantra as Paul — her boyfriend of eight years — tells her he just isn’t feeling it anymore.
“We just haven’t been moving in the same direction in a long time, Cammie... I love you, but I just don’t think I’m in love with you.”
Camryn stares at him, incredulous. “What does that even mean, Paul? You literally told me you were picking out rings two weeks ago. And now this?” She throws up her hands. None of it makes sense. There’s no way the man she’s devoted herself to — body and soul — for the past eight years could be this much of an asshole.
But he is an asshole.
Joshlynn told her. Dennis told her. Hell, she told her.
“Cammie, I—” He pauses like he wants her to finish the sentence for him.
Not this time, buddy. I’ve always picked up your slack. If you’re going to end this, it’s going to come from you.
She crosses her arms and waits. “Did you have something to say? I’m not a mind reader, Paul. I love you. I’ve supported you. Every all-nighter, every rejection, every bad review — I was there. I edited every transcript. I held you together when you couldn’t hold yourself. I thought we made it when you got the good news two weeks ago. Remember that? Your acceptance letter from the Times? The ring shopping?”
Her voice wavers. Her eyes sting. She’s losing the battle.
“What happened?”
Paul leans back into the sunken couch cushions and sighs. He runs his hands over his face and through his hair — a nervous habit when he actually has to talk about his feelings.
“Cam… you just don’t have any drive or direction. I’ve worked my ass off to make something of myself. It feels like you’re just riding the coattails of my success.”
This. Fucking. Asshole.
The tears are falling now.
Fuck. She didn’t want to cry.
“Your coattails?” she chokes out. “Your GODDAMN coattails? Are you fucking serious, Paul?”
Camryn stands abruptly, heart pounding, adrenaline rushing. Her whole body is screaming leave.
“I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of making this easy. But you’re a fucking asshole. After everything I’ve done to help you get here? I quit my job for you. I stopped studying for my master’s for you. I put my entire life on hold because you said once you reached this goal, we’d be set.”
Her voice breaks.
“And now we’re here, and suddenly you want out. Fine. You want out? I’ll give it to you. I’m ending it. Fuck you, you mediocre nobody.”
She grabs her purse and jacket from the back of the couch, jams her feet into her sneakers without bothering to tie them, and heads for the door.
“I hope you understand what a huge mistake you’re making. This isn’t just wrong — it’s cruel. And you’re going to regret it.”
Paul doesn’t even look up. His fingers twist in his lap, useless and silent. No “I’m sorry.” No “Don’t go.” Nothing.
Coward.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air outside is too cold for April.
Camryn doesn’t notice until her skin starts to sting. Her fingers are numb around her car keys, which she shoves into her coat pocket before she starts walking — nowhere, really. Just forward. Away from him. Away from the apartment they turned into a home. Away from the ghost of everything she thought her life was supposed to be.
Her shoes slap against the sidewalk in sharp, angry rhythms. She barely feels them. She barely feels anything now that the adrenaline’s fading and the reality is settling in, thick and awful in her chest.
She wipes at her face, but the mascara’s already betraying her. She can feel it in sticky black streaks down her cheeks. People pass her, glance her way, some politely look away — others stare. Good. Let them look.
Eight fucking years.
Eight years of everything.
She thinks back to the first time she met Paul. Some house party with mutual friends — red Solo cups, music that shook the walls, and a tiny upstairs bathroom where he handed her paper towels after someone spilled beer on her shoes. He made some dumb joke about English majors always being ready to clean up messes with metaphors. She laughed. God, she laughed so hard.
It had started slow. Texts here and there. Study dates that turned into real dates. Then, about nine months in, something shifted. They got serious. Real serious. They moved in together a year after that. Signed a lease. Got a cat. Bought matching coffee mugs.
And when graduation came, they both had plans. She was deep into botany — plant science, he always said, as if calling it that made it sound cooler. He had dreams of getting published, teaching, doing the literary circuit.
And when the money got tight and the deadlines piled up and his self-doubt started eating him alive, he looked at her with those wide, desperate eyes and said, “I need you. I just need a little more time. Once I make it, you can go back. You’ll get your master’s. We’ll be fine.”
So she said yes.
She paused her dreams. Put them in a box labeled Later. Because he was supposed to be her forever. Because she believed in him more than she believed in anything else. Because soulmates were supposed to be worth the sacrifices.
Weren’t they?
Now she’s here. Mascara-streaked, heartbroken, freezing, walking like a ghost through the city with no idea where she’s going.
She sniffs. Her throat aches from holding in sobs, and something cracks open in her chest — a slow, steady ache that might never stop.
I need a drink.
The thought lands hard and certain, like a punch to the gut.
When she finally stops walking, she blinks up at a flickering neon sign that reads Jack’s Place. The windows are dusty. There’s a crooked “Happy Hour” chalkboard sign on the sidewalk with the H barely hanging on. It smells like smoke and fried grease and regret.
She has no memory of choosing this street, let alone this door. But her hand is already on it, pulling it open.
~~~~~~~~~~
The heavy door creaks open with a sound that feels too loud for the silence inside.
Camryn steps into a wall of stale air — old beer, fryer oil, and something sour beneath it all. The lighting is dim and yellowed, casting everything in a nicotine-stained hue. It smells like heartache and hangovers. Like a place people come to forget.
Only two other patrons sit at the bar. One’s slouched so low his face is almost in his glass. The other is nursing a beer like it personally offended him. Neither looks up when she walks in.
Something slow and sad is dragging itself out of the jukebox in the corner — a mournful old country song, all steel guitar and heartbreak. The machine looks like it’s been kicked more times than it’s been cleaned, the panel cracked and the lights flickering in a half-hearted attempt to stay alive.
Behind the bar, the bartender doesn’t even glance her way. He’s got a paunchy gut stuffed into a stained t-shirt, greasy slicked-back hair, and a patchy beard that looks like it gave up halfway through growing. His eyes are fixed on the tiny TV mounted to the wall, where a football game plays in muted colors.
Camryn steps up to the bar, clears her throat just loud enough to be polite.
“Whiskey neat. And a beer.”
Still no greeting. No nod. Just a grunt as he pulls down a dusty glass and pours without care.
She pays without thinking. Doesn’t even check the total. Just takes the two drinks and turns toward the rest of the room.
The booths are all empty. Cracked leather seating with stuffing poking out in places, Formica tables scratched and stained by time. She picks the least offensive-looking one and slides into the seat.
Her hand lands on the table and sticks slightly. She doesn’t move it. Just stares at it for a second, like the whole moment has hit pause.
Then she exhales, slow and shaky, like the last bit of air has finally been let out of her body.
She doesn’t know how she got here. Not just the bar — the whole thing. This entire life detour that’s turned into a dead end.
Eight years. All that love, all that time, all that sacrifice — gone in a single, cowardly conversation. Traded in for a cheap football game and some self-righteous coattail bullshit.
She reaches for the whiskey and throws it back in one burning gulp.
The jukebox moans through another verse. She lets it wash over her, bitter and broken.
It fits.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Camryn is drunk.
Not tipsy. Not pleasantly buzzed. Wasted.
Her body feels like it’s made of soggy bread. Her head is swimming, her vision soft around the edges, like she’s underwater but someone also smeared Vaseline on her glasses. If she were even slightly more sober, she’d be humiliated. Instead, she lets out a hiccupping giggle that dies into a groan as she fumbles with her phone on the sticky table.
The screen is too bright. Her fingers are too fat. Or drunk. Or both.
She’s trying — trying — to type out a text to Paul.
CAMMIE: Hope you and your fckn coattails are super happy cause when your book tanks and your dick shrinks from guilt ill b in a garden surrounded by beautiful plants andsomeone hot. Maybe two somoensss.”
Backspace. Re-type. Fail again.
God, I’m drunk.
The jukebox’s sad crooning has given way to classic rock now, something loud and gritty. It’s nearly midnight and the place is packed. Camryn barely noticed the bar fill up, but it has. Elbows everywhere, laughter bouncing off cracked tile and faded wood. Bodies pressed together in the dim light like it’s the only place left to be.
Her phone buzzes again.
Joshlynn.
Of course.
She’s called five times. Texted more than that.
JOSHY: Babe. What the hell.
JOSHY: Answer me.
JOSHY: Where ARE you??
JOSHY: You better not be at home crying alone.
JOSHY: I will show up and drag your ass to a karaoke bar. In pajamas. I’m not playing.
Camryn sniffles, swipes the screen away. She can’t deal with Joshlynn right now. She can’t deal with anything.
And Josh would never understand what this felt like.
Joshlynn had always been the confident one. The beautiful one. Blonde hair that fell in perfect waves no matter the weather. Legs for days. Boobs that defied gravity and bras. And an ass that made people walk into poles. Add in that hourglass shape and an attitude to match, and Joshlynn didn’t pursue attention — it just found her. She wore bright colors and bold prints and body-hugging dresses like she was born in them. Knew just how to drape a crop top over her curves and make heads turn in three directions.
They were both plus-sized. Size 18 sisters-in-arms. But while Joshlynn radiated “fuck you, I’m hot,” Camryn had always felt… invisible. Soft. Round. With thick thighs, stretch marks like faded lightning bolts across her hips, and a double chin that felt so much worse under fluorescent lighting in dressing rooms.
She never figured out how to dress herself. Not really. Her wardrobe was mostly oversized tees and jeans that gave up after two washes. It started after that one shopping trip when she was nineteen — when her mom tried to help and Camryn walked out with three bags of clothes that would’ve looked better on someone’s grandma. She never tried again after that. She didn’t have the confidence for tight skirts or plunging necklines.
She had her garden. Her books. Her safe little shell.
And now even that had cracked open.
She downs the last of her beer, wincing as it hits her stomach like a brick. There’s another whiskey in front of her — she doesn’t remember ordering it, but it’s hers now.
She knocks it back. Hard.
The bar around her is spinning a little. People are laughing. Flirting. Living. And she’s here, with her heart in pieces and her phone buzzing nonstop and the echoes of Paul’s voice stuck on loop in her head.
“You just don’t have any drive or direction.”
She lets out a bitter laugh that almost turns into a sob and slumps deeper into the booth. Her hand brushes the side of her face. She doesn’t even remember fixing her curls, but they’re hanging around her cheeks like a halo — soft, messy, beautiful. Not that she’d ever call them that.
She doesn’t see what other people do. The rich, warm brown of her eyes flecked with gold. The delicate curve of her cheekbones. The softness of her lips when she’s not biting them to stay quiet.
She doesn’t see any of it.
But maybe tonight, someone will.
Or maybe she’ll just drink herself into unconsciousness and puke in the bushes.
At this point, she doesn’t really care.
~~~~~~~~
Camryn’s phone slips out of her hand again, landing screen-first on the table with a dull thud.
“Shit,” she mutters, voice thick and slurred.
She picks it up, squints, misses the opening of her purse by a mile.
Again.
And again.
She huffs out a laugh that’s more of a sob. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glossy — from the drinks or the frustration or the shame, maybe all of it. She can’t get her stupid phone into her stupid bag and the bar is spinning and loud and full of strangers and she feels so goddamn stupid.
There’s this hot, prickling pressure building behind her eyes — not from the alcohol, but from the sheer weight of it all. Of how ridiculous she must look. Of how embarrassed she feels for crying in public. Over a phone. Over a man. Over everything.
It feels like the universe is pointing at her and laughing.
And that’s when she hears a voice.
Smooth. Confident. Low enough to curl around her spine and settle there.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone fucked you over tonight.”
Camryn looks up — or tries to. The room shifts hard to the left, and it takes a second for her vision to adjust.
Standing there is a woman so stunning, she doesn’t seem real. Like the bar lights got it wrong and accidentally spotlighted a goddess.
Tan skin. Long, dark waves of hair spilling over her shoulders. Dark eyes that look like they already know things about Camryn she hasn’t admitted to herself yet. She’s tall. Tall enough that Camryn has to tilt her head back to see her face… or, well, both of them. Because right now, there are definitely two.
The woman smiles — slow, knowing, devastating.
“Someone fucked me over tonight, too,” she says.
Then: “Can I join you?”
Camryn stares, completely dumbstruck.
Her phone finally slips from her hand again and clatters to the floor.
~~~~~~~~
Diana slides into the booth across from her like she owns the place.
Camryn blinks, affronted. Did I say you could sit down? she thinks, brow furrowing. She opens her mouth to say something — probably rude — but Diana beats her to it.
“I’m Diana. Diana Westward.”
She says it like it means something. Like it should echo. And somehow, it does.
Camryn snorts, tries to sit up straighter but ends up swaying slightly. She pushes her curls out of her face and mumbles, “Cammie.”
Then winces.
“No. Fuck that.” Her words come out louder than she intends, slurred and sharp. “Don’t call me that. That piece of shit called me that for eight fucking years.”
She points a wobbly finger at Diana.
“Call me Camryn. Because that’s my name. So you should definitely call me that.”
Diana looks amused, one dark brow lifting slightly as she rests her chin in her hand. She’s watching Camryn like she’s the most interesting thing in the bar — which, given the surroundings, she very well might be.
Camryn fumbles for her drink and misses it entirely.
“I need to go home,” she mutters, mostly to herself, eyes drifting toward the door. But her stomach twists at the thought, and the words fall out louder than she realized. “But my home’s not mine anymore.”
There’s a beat of silence. A slow blink from Diana.
“Wow,” she says softly. “This dude really did a number on you, huh?”
Camryn lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half sob. “He… I—god, yeah. He did.”
And then it all just… comes out.
She doesn’t mean to tell this beautiful stranger everything, but there it goes — a chaotic word vomit of emotional wreckage. Her and Paul. The college years. The mutual friends. The slow build, the hot rush, the promises. The compromises. Her putting off her master’s, putting her life on pause so he could chase his dreams.
“And I believed him. Every time. Every fucking time he said ‘when I make it, it’s our turn.’ But then he made it. He got his little newspaper deal and suddenly I was… heavy. Dead weight. I was just riding his success like some clinging, lazy little leech.” Her voice breaks. “I gave up everything for him.”
She slams her hand down on the table, tears slipping down her cheeks now, angry and hot. “And he said I had no direction. Like… like I didn’t have dreams! I fucking did. I do. I love plants. I wanted to work in conservation. But I gave it up for him because I thought he was it. I thought he was my forever. My soulmate.”
Camryn sways forward, nearly face-planting into her empty whiskey glass.
“And now I’m crying in a dive bar. To a stranger. Who’s too hot to be real. So that’s where I’m at.”
She lifts her head, blinking at Diana through the drunken blur. “Sorry. I think I might puke.”
~~~~~~~
Diana doesn’t hesitate.
One second Camryn’s still slumped over the sticky booth table, trying to figure out if she’s going to cry or hurl, and the next, she’s being scooped up — not exactly gracefully, but with enough strength and purpose that it doesn’t matter.
“Bathroom. Now,” Diana mutters, practically dragging her through the crowd.
Camryn vaguely hears someone say “Hey, is she okay?” and Diana reply coolly, “She’s fine. Back off.” But then the bathroom door swings open and Camryn’s knees hit the cold tile just in time.
She pukes.
A lot.
It’s not elegant, it’s not a little cinematic retch — it’s a full-body betrayal, her entire system revolting against the whiskey, the beer, the heartbreak. She doesn’t know how long it lasts. Time dissolves in the acid and the tears and the awful, gasping coughs.
Diana’s hand is on her back. Her other hand holds Camryn’s hair out of her face, sweeping the curls gently over one shoulder.
“Shhh,” she murmurs. “You’re okay. Just let it out Cam. Let it all out.”
The soft cooing is almost worse than the puking. Camryn hadn’t expected kindness. Not from a stranger. Not tonight.
At one point, she thinks she hears the door open again — and Diana say something low, firm — but she’s too deep in it to process. Everything narrows to the cold porcelain, the bile in her throat, and the heat of embarrassment radiating from her skin.
Eventually, the storm passes. Camryn collapses forward, arms bracketing the toilet, head bowed.
Her voice is a whisper, choked and hollow, echoing in the quiet bathroom.
“This isn’t supposed to be my life,” she says. “I don’t know how I got here.”
Diana doesn’t say anything at first. Just strokes her back in slow, grounding circles. And then, grabs Camryn's chin and tilts her face up softly:
“Camryn. Hey. Look at me.”
Camryn hesitates, then lifts her head. Her face is blotchy, eyes red and watery, streaks of mascara painting her cheeks. She’s never felt uglier. Never felt smaller.
But Diana is looking at her like she’s something whole. Something worth holding onto.
“Look,” she says gently. “I know that this Paul asshole really knocked you on your ass tonight. But the greatest revenge you could ever have… is to rise.”
Camryn blinks.
“Rise up,” Diana says, fierce now, her eyes glittering. “Be the woman he made you give up so he could shine. Take back your life. Your dreams. Your fire. Don’t just survive him, Camryn. Outgrow him. Outlive him.”
A shaky breath escapes Camryn’s lips. Something inside her stirs. Tiny, buried deep — but it’s there.
She closes her eyes.
“I hate that you’re hot AND inspiring,” she croaks.
Diana laughs, and it’s warm and full and easy. “Get used to it, babe. I’m full of surprises.”
