Chapter 1: The Breakup Band-Aid

The day I turned twenty-seven, my mom started leaving voicemails about grandbabies. By Thanksgiving, the pressure was coming from every direction—relatives, neighbors, even the guy who bags my groceries.

There’s something about that age that sets off alarms in every mother, aunt, and well-meaning neighbor from New Jersey to Nebraska. The subtle questions over Thanksgiving pie became outright interrogations. I stabbed my fork into the pumpkin pie, wishing I could disappear into the whipped cream. My cousin’s kids shrieked in the background, but all I could hear was my aunt’s voice: “You know, time doesn’t wait for anyone, honey.” Every phone call home came with a gentle but persistent, “So, honey, are you seeing anyone serious?”

I abruptly broke up with my boyfriend of three years—the one I’d been obsessed with—and started going home for set-up dates.

I ripped off the Band-Aid over text, if I’m honest. Three years, deleted in a single swipe. Then came the parade of awkward brunches and coffee shop meetings, every guy introduced by some connection of my mom’s or my dad’s golf buddy. There’s nothing like eating limp pancakes at a small-town diner while a stranger across the booth sizes you up like you’re a used car.

A friend asked me, “You like Derek so much. Can you really let him go?”

I rolled my eyes, but my voice came out tired. “Come on, I’m not clueless. Derek’s a blast, but if I actually married him? I’d probably end up hating both of us.”

I tried to sound tougher than I felt, even as I fiddled with my cold coffee. I could almost hear my friend’s eyebrow arch over the phone.

Suddenly, a familiar, gloomy voice came from beside me.

“Oh? So that’s why you dumped me?”

My stomach dropped. Only Derek could manage to sneak up without making a sound in a busy café. His voice still had that lazy sarcasm, the kind that could make an apology sound like an insult.

1

When I dragged my suitcase home, I happened to see a girl coming out the front door.

It was the kind of scene you’d expect in a Netflix rom-com, minus the laugh track. I’d barely pushed the door open when I saw her click-clacking out, balancing on those ridiculous heels like she was headed for a runway and not my apartment’s cracked concrete steps.

She had on an oversized black sweater—no pants, just bare legs and those sky-high Jimmy Choos that probably cost more than my car insurance.

Not even a pair of shorts—just that oversized sweater, bare legs, and those shoes that probably cost more than my rent. She looked like she belonged on a music video set, not in my dingy building with its humming fluorescent lights.

I recognized her as Derek’s band’s bassist, probably named Casey—early twenties, very pretty.

Casey, that’s right. I remembered her from the few gigs I’d dragged myself to, always with a killer bass line and an attitude to match. She had that effortless, glowy youth that only college kids and TikTok influencers seem to have.

Instinctively, I stopped behind the hallway door and didn’t go out.

I pressed my back against the faded drywall, holding my breath. My chest tightened. I hated how small I felt—like a kid caught hiding in her own house. I felt ridiculous hiding in my own home, but I couldn’t bear the idea of running into her, or worse, having her see me.

After a while, Derek emerged behind her, wearing only jeans, lazily leaning against the wall as he lit a cigarette.

It was classic Derek—shirtless, water beading on his skin, like he’d just walked off a Calvin Klein billboard and into my personal disaster movie. He didn’t even care that the neighbors could see.

His upper body was bare, water still dripping down his sculpted muscles.

Sometimes I wondered if he showered so often just for the effect. The man was practically allergic to shirts at home, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

After a moment, he casually tossed a Michael Kors handbag over.

“Take it.”

His tone was casual, as if giving away designer bags was just something you did on a Tuesday.

Casey’s eyes lit up. She turned around and threw herself at Derek, squealing:

“Ah! I’ve wanted this bag forever! Where’d you get it?”

I watched her face go all bright and excited, like she’d just won the lottery. Meanwhile, I felt the tiniest sting in my gut, watching him play the role of sugar daddy so effortlessly.

“Picked it up last time I was in LA.”

He said it with the kind of half-smirk that let you know LA was just another pit stop for him.

“I love it, thank you, babe!”

She bounced on her toes, hugging the bag to her chest like a kid at Christmas. I had to admit, she wore happiness well.

Casey wanted to linger, but Derek seemed impatient, frowning slightly.

He had that look he got when he was done with someone—bored, already checked out. I’d seen it before, only this time, it wasn’t directed at me.

“All right, hurry up and go.”

She pouted, half sulking, half playing cute:

“So heartless. You just called me ‘babe’ and now you’re kicking me out.”

It was almost impressive, the way she could tease him and not get burned. She knew he’d eat it up, and he did, for about two seconds.

She didn’t seem mad, just happily slung the bag over her shoulder and blew Derek a kiss:

“I’m off, see you tomorrow!”

She sailed out the door, her perfume trailing behind her. I let myself breathe again, though my heart was still thumping in my chest.

Once she left, I stepped out from behind the hallway door.

I felt like a spy, caught at the end of my own stakeout. Derek, caught off guard, looked almost sheepish for a half second before shrugging it off like he’d just forgotten to take out the trash.

Derek hadn’t expected me to come back so suddenly—he froze, then immediately slipped back into his usual nonchalance.

He didn’t even bother covering up, just flicked his hair out of his eyes and played it cool.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?”

His voice was smooth, as if I was the one intruding on his night, not the other way around.

I looked at him for a moment.

My eyes lingered on the water dripping down his chest, the fading lipstick smudge on his jaw, the sheer gall of him standing there like he owned the place.

“It was late. I was afraid calling would wake you up.”

I tried to keep my tone even, but my voice felt thin. I avoided looking at the mess on the coffee table—a wine glass, someone’s fake eyelashes, crumpled tissues.

The ambiguous red marks on Derek’s neck were still fresh, but he showed no guilt, just pulled me into the house with one arm.

He always did this—pretend nothing was wrong, like we could just pick up where we left off. My feet scraped across the rug as he guided me inside.

“I’m hungry. Make me something to eat.” He flopped onto the couch and turned on the TV, acting as if nothing had happened.

He sprawled out, flipping through channels, thumb hovering on ESPN. He didn’t even look at me, just expected me to fall back into the old routine.

When I didn’t move for a long time, he frowned:

“What’s wrong?”

His voice was sharper now, impatient, as if my silence was an inconvenience.

Then he seemed to realize, a lazy smile flickering in his eyes:

“Missed me?”

The old charm was back, just like that. He leaned in, his cologne mixing with the leftover smell of cigarettes and perfume.

He got up and hugged me from behind, his hot breath swirling around my neck, his hand slowly slipping under my shirt.

He was always physical first, thinking later. The way he touched me was both comforting and infuriating, familiar and foreign all at once.

“I’ll eat you first, then dinner—”

His voice dropped, the words curling against my skin. I shivered, not sure if it was desire or disgust this time.

He’d played guitar for years, so his fingertips were rough and calloused, scratching across my skin in a way that was both painful and ticklish.

Those calluses had always turned me on, the proof of his talent and carelessness. Now, they just made me feel exposed.

I closed my eyes and tiredly pushed him away.

He looked at me, confused. I rarely turned him down, but tonight, I just didn’t have it in me.

I did like Derek’s body. I’d chased him at first mostly because I was into his looks.

Back then, I thought a face like his could make up for anything. Now, I realized I was starting to care about more than bone structure and smirks.

But maybe it was the long flight, or maybe it was that girl just now—either way, I just felt exhausted, not in the mood at all.

My head ached, and my heart felt heavier than my suitcase. I just wanted to crawl under the covers and disappear.

Derek wasn’t used to being rejected by me. After a brief daze, his face darkened.

He didn’t handle rejection well—it was written all over his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

His voice was low, but I could hear the challenge in it, the demand for an explanation.

I lowered my head and saw a black lump on the carpet.

My eyes focused on the shapeless thing, realizing with a pang what it was.

A pair of stockings, torn beyond recognition.

Wolford, probably. I’d bought him a pair for Christmas once, and he’d barely noticed. These were stretched and mangled, tossed aside like the rest of her things.

Derek saw them too. He clicked his tongue, his expression turning ugly.

He ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath. The tension in the air was thick, heavier than before.

The living room fell into a tense silence. He took out a cigarette, popped the menthol bead with a crisp snap, and lit up.

I watched the end glow orange, the smoke curling toward the ceiling fan. The cheap air freshener was no match for the smell.

“Her lease was up. She had nowhere to go, so I let her crash here for a night.”

His eyes flickered away as he spoke, almost bored. I’d heard better lies from teenagers trying to sneak out after curfew.

“Nothing happened between us.”

The flatness of his tone made the words sound almost convincing—if I hadn’t been here before, too many times.

I looked at Derek. Our eyes met through the white smoke, both of us hiding our real feelings.

He stared right back at me, unblinking, daring me to call his bluff. I didn’t have the energy.

But deep down, we both knew how lame that excuse was.

I could have laughed, but instead I just let the silence settle. We both knew the truth, but neither of us wanted to say it out loud.

This wasn’t the first time Derek had cheated. He was probably born a player—he’d been like this since the day I met him.

There were always hints, always a lipstick stain on a collar, a missed call at 2 a.m., a mysterious charge on his card for some woman’s Uber.

Back then, my best friend had dragged me to see a famous rock band, raving about how hot the lead singer was and how hard it was to get tickets.

I’d just started grad school, overwhelmed and lonely. My best friend, Brittany, was obsessed with the local music scene. She practically had to bribe me with milkshakes to get me to go.

I didn’t care about rock, felt totally indifferent.

Concerts were too loud, too crowded. I was more of a playlist-and-headphones girl. But Brittany was relentless.

Until Derek came on stage.

He walked on like he owned the place, tuning his guitar with the kind of focus that made you forget about everyone else in the room.

He lowered his head, playing guitar, dark hair falling over his fair forehead, lazy strands revealing thin pink eyelids.

His jaw was sharp, hair always a little messy, eyes half-closed in concentration. The spotlight made him glow, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe.

He was the plainest dressed on stage—just a black T-shirt and jeans—but he instantly became the center of attention.

No designer jacket, no flashy chains, just confidence and raw charisma. Even the bartender was craning his neck to get a better look.

That face was the ultimate luxury.

I used to joke that if he ever got arrested, his mugshot would end up in GQ. He really was that pretty.

He looked up, the hazy stage lights reflecting in his amber eyes, a faint smile on his lips.

When our eyes met, I felt a jolt. He looked away, but that moment was burned into me.

It was my first time at a band gig. My best friend and the girls in the crowd were screaming like crazy, the sound almost tearing the roof off.

It was wild—the kind of chaos you can only get in a packed bar with sticky floors and broken neon signs. I stood there, frozen, not sure what to do with my hands.

His gaze swept over the noisy crowd. For a split second, our eyes met, then he looked away.

For just a heartbeat, I convinced myself he’d noticed me. It was all I needed.

The music was beautiful that night, but I didn’t hear a thing.

The room spun, bass rattling my chest, but I was lost somewhere else entirely.

Because in that moment, everything was silent. I could only hear my own thundering heartbeat.

I remember gripping Brittany’s arm, trying to steady myself. She yelled something in my ear, but I barely heard her.

After the show, a swarm of girls rushed backstage for his contact info—I was among them.

We waited in a cramped hallway, breathless and giddy. I watched other girls hand him their phones, snap selfies, try to flirt.

Single for twenty-three years, that was probably the bravest thing I’d ever done.

I could barely get the words out when it was my turn. My hands shook as I handed over my phone for his Instagram.

Derek didn’t refuse anyone. Every girl who wanted his Instagram got his handle, me included.

He was equal-opportunity friendly—never mean, just distant. My phone vibrated with the notification before I’d even left the bar.

A year later, all the girls chasing him had given up. Only I kept at it.

I slid into his DMs with memes, song recommendations, inside jokes. Eventually, he started responding. One day, he invited me out for coffee, and it snowballed from there.

I don’t know if it was sympathy, being moved, or what, but Derek just let me stick around. I became his girlfriend—until now.

I held onto that title like a lucky penny, even as the shine wore off.

But I knew, in all our years together, Derek never really liked me.

He was always a little distant, like he was waiting for something better to come along.

Or maybe he liked me for being sensible, generous, never making a fuss.

He once joked that I was the only girl he’d ever dated who didn’t throw his phone out the window or set his clothes on fire. I always took it as a compliment, but maybe it wasn’t.

He got caught cheating so many times, but as long as he gave me a half-decent excuse, I’d forgive him.

I told myself I was being mature, that I understood him, but really, I just didn’t want to fight.

He told me more than once I wasn’t his type, that he was only with me because I treated him well.

There were times, lying in bed after another argument, when he’d pat my head and say, “You’re not exactly my type, Lillian. But you’re easy to be around.” Like he was doing me a favor.

He even joked that if he ever found true love, he’d dump me.

I laughed it off, but each time he said it, the words left a bruise.

All these years, our relationship survived only because I kept compromising.

I bent until I almost broke. I kept thinking, maybe if I just gave a little more, he’d finally see me.

“You promised you wouldn’t cheat again.”

My voice was low as I stared at the ruined Wolford stockings on the floor.

It was more accusation than question. The words tasted bitter.

A flash of mockery crossed Derek’s eyes. He didn’t bother to coax me.

He exhaled smoke, his mouth curling into a sneer. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a shaky breath. He’d stopped pretending, finally.

“You actually believed I meant it?”

His words hit harder than a slap. I felt the ground tilt beneath me.

He leaned closer, blowing minty smoke in my face, his eyes full of malice:

“Can’t handle it?”

He said it like a dare, the edge in his voice sharp enough to draw blood.

“If you can’t handle it, we can break up.”

He’d said this to me countless times.

It had become our toxic little dance—he’d push, I’d pull back, then he’d threaten, and I’d cave.

And every time, I’d end up begging him not to leave.

I’d cry, apologize, promise to do better. He’d roll his eyes, say he forgave me, and the cycle would start again.

Over time, he figured out how to deal with me. He knew that as soon as he said this, I’d have no cards left to play.

He always won. I let him.

I turned away. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

I grabbed my phone, refusing to look at him. I could hear his heavy breathing behind me.

Derek grabbed my wrist, and he had that resting jerk face—expressionless, but somehow still intimidating.

His grip was tight, fingers digging into my skin. He looked down at me, face unreadable, a flash of something like panic in his eyes.

“Lillian, enough.”

His voice was flat, but I could hear the warning underneath. Still, I pulled free.

I pulled free and went into the bedroom.

I shut the door quietly, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at my hands. My heart felt like a fist, clenched and shaking.

Not long after, I heard a door slam thunderously outside.

The walls rattled. I flinched, listening to his angry footsteps fade down the hall.

Derek had left.

He was pissed—I knew it.

He hated losing control, hated it even more when I refused to play my part.

After all, I was always the one to coax him, to fawn over him. I’d never given him the cold shoulder like this.

I curled up on the bed, phone buzzing in my hand. I felt oddly empty, like I was floating above my own life.

I rolled over and picked up my phone.

I checked my notifications, scrolling through group chats and unread messages, trying to distract myself from the ache in my chest.

In the family group chat, my mom had tagged me on Facebook Messenger.

Her profile picture was her with my dad at the Grand Canyon, both of them grinning into the sun. Her message was cheerful, but insistent.

“I never rushed you before, but you’re twenty-seven now. It’s time to think about marriage.”

“My coworker’s son is pretty nice. I think he looks all right too. Why not meet him when you come home for Christmas?”

She’d attached a photo, too—some guy in a suit at a wedding, holding a glass of champagne. I sighed and rolled my eyes.

Then I checked my boss’s message.

He was direct, as always. The company logo flashed at the top of the chat.

“Lillian, the branch office is really short-staffed right now. With your abilities, being assistant manager is a waste. Are you interested in managing the new branch? It’ll be tough to start, but you can handle it.”

I read it twice, feeling the weight of the opportunity settle on my shoulders. It was a big deal, but also terrifying.

My mom wanted me home for set-up dates.

The company had just opened a new branch—in my hometown.

Fate seemed to be lining things up, whether I liked it or not.

Right time, right place, right people. I really had no reason to stay here.

I stared at the ceiling, feeling like I was standing at a crossroads, the signs pointing everywhere but here.

I sighed. Honestly, I really liked Derek.

I did. Even after everything. My brain knew he was bad for me, but my heart still beat a little faster when I thought about him.

He was hot, had a great body, and we were great in bed.

No one could turn me inside out the way he did, and I’d never felt so alive as when we were tangled up together.

Most importantly, he was scummy enough.

He never pretended to be what he wasn’t. He didn’t apologize for it, either, which somehow made it easier to accept.

Being with him was easy—I didn’t have to think about being responsible for him or worry about our future.

He made it clear from the start that he wasn’t a forever guy. That honesty, twisted as it was, took the pressure off.

When I started working, I was exhausted and just wanted someone to blow off steam with. But I was average-looking and a total face-chaser, so I couldn’t find anyone I liked until Derek.

I was grinding away at a new job, pulling all-nighters, eating takeout at my desk. He was a welcome distraction, no strings attached.

He spent his best years with me, helped me relieve a lot of stress with his body while I was hustling for my career.

Those late nights, the laughter, the heat—I’d needed all of it, more than I realized.

And even though his relationships with women were messy, at least he was careful. Before being with him, I’d heard all his hookups had to show a clean bill of health within three days.

I always used protection, so I wasn’t worried about getting sick.

I’d been vigilant, maybe a little paranoid. But Derek always respected that, if nothing else.

It’d be hard to find another guy who satisfied me like him.

Even now, thinking about moving on felt daunting. I wasn’t sure I’d ever find anyone who fit me so perfectly, physically at least.

But what can you do? Dating is one thing, marriage is another.

My mom’s words echoed in my mind, and I knew she was right. The thrill of dating couldn’t last forever.

I really liked Derek.

But I also knew, crystal clear, that he wasn’t marriage material.

No matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise, deep down, I knew I deserved better.

Now, it was time for me to make a choice.

I closed my eyes and let myself feel the sadness. I’d loved him, but I needed to love myself more.