“You’re great, Larkin. You really are. You have such a good heart,” he said. “But you didn’t take care of yourself. I deserve someone who matches me.”
That was the line that really did it.
I gave him a trash bag for his things.
Matches me.
Like I was the wrong shoes for his suit.
Maren didn’t say a word. Not one. Just crossed her arms, eyes shining, and let him talk.
I gave him a trash bag for his things.
I told her to leave my key on the counter.
Within three months, they were engaged.
Then I sat on my kitchen floor and felt everything collapse inward.
Within weeks, they were posting couple photos.
Within three months, they were engaged.
People sent me screenshots. I muted half my contacts.
Abby offered to help me slash his tires. I laughed and cried and said no.
I couldn’t stand being in my body with that voice in my head.
Instead, I turned all the hate inward.
He just said what everyone else thinks, I told myself. You’re great, but. You’re funny, but. If you’d really loved him, you’d have lost the weight.
I couldn’t stand being in my body with that voice in my head.
So I started changing the only thing I could control.
Little by little, I walked farther.
I joined Abby’s gym.
The first day, I lasted eight minutes on the treadmill before my lungs lit on fire. I pretended I had to pee, hid in the bathroom, and cried.
The second day, I went back.
Little by little, I walked farther. Jogged. Lifted light weights. Watched form videos on YouTube in my car so I wouldn’t look stupid.
I cut back on takeout. Learned to roast vegetables without burning them. Logged my food obsessively. Drank more water.
Then my face looked sharper in the mirror.
For weeks, nothing seemed different.
Then my jeans got loose.
Then my face looked sharper in the mirror.
Then someone at work said, “You look really good. Did you do something?”
Six months later, I’d lost a lot of weight.
It felt good and creepy in equal measure.
Enough that people who hadn’t seen me in a while did double-takes. Enough that my aunt pulled me aside to whisper, “I knew you had it in you,” like I’d passed some secret test.
I got more attention.
More door holds, more smiles, more “Wow, you look amazing.”
It felt good and creepy in equal measure.
Then came their wedding.
Inside, I still felt like the girl who’d been dumped for her thinner best friend.
Then came their wedding.
I knew the date from social media. Mutual friends posted, “Can’t wait!” with ring emojis. I muted more people.
Obviously, I wasn’t invited.
My plan: phone on silent, DoorDash, trash TV, bed.
“Is this Larkin?”
At 10:17 a.m., my phone rang anyway.
Unknown number.
I answered out of habit.
“Hello?”
“Is this Larkin?” a woman asked, voice tight.
“You need to come here.”
“Yes.”
“This is Sayer’s mother.”
Mrs. Whitlock. Perfect hair, perfect pearls, perfect passive-aggressive comments about “us girls” sticking to salad.
My stomach dropped.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Just come. Please.”
“You need to come here,” she said. “Right now. Lakeview Country Club. Please. You won’t believe what happened.”
“Is Sayer okay?” I asked.
“He’s fine,” she snapped. “Just come. Please.”
I should’ve said no.
Instead, I grabbed my keys.
Except the parking lot was chaos.
The country club was 40 minutes away, manicured lawns and tasteful signs saying “Whitlock Wedding” with arrows.
Except the parking lot was chaos.
Cars half on the grass. People in suits and dresses clustered outside, whispering.
Inside, the reception hall looked wrecked.
Chairs overturned. A tablecloth hanging crooked. A centerpiece smashed, petals and glass all over the floor. Champagne spilled in sticky patches.
Her updo was falling apart.
Not an accident.
“Larkin!”
Mrs. Whitlock hurried over.
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