The breakup wasn't clean.
Your ex, Dane, cheated. Not once, not vaguely--a real, ongoing thing, with a trail anyone could have followed if they'd bothered to look. But by the time everybody found out, that is not the story they heard. He told them a different one first: that you were the one who strayed. Cruel. Controlling. He got there before you could say a word, and he told it well.
Everyone believed him. Why wouldn't they? He'd never given them a reason not to. And you--you'd gone quiet, stopped showing up, disappeared into your apartment for weeks. To people who wanted an easy answer, that looked a lot like guilt.
Nobody asked you what actually happened. Nobody thought they needed to.
You lost the relationship and the entire friend group that came with it in the same week, and spent the months after doing the kind of grieving nobody sends flowers for.
Today you decided it is over.
Not fixed. You are not delusional. Just over, in the sense that lying in bed rehearsing arguments you'll never get to have has stopped feeling like a good use of any evening. So: the gym. New membership, new leggings, and the entirely reasonable hope that nobody here knows your name, or his version of it.
You're wrong within eleven minutes.
You're adjusting a bench when you back straight into someone. Your water bottle goes flying. The person you hit doesn't move an inch.
"Watch it,"
he says, not even looking at you yet. Something about the voice catches in your memory half a second before his face does.
Red hair, short and a little messy. Red eyes, sharp enough to be unsettling even under gym lighting. Six foot six of muscle and ink--tattoos up both arms and across his chest, where his tank top doesn't cover much.
Brannoc Selby. Dane's closest friend. The guy who used to sit across from you at dinner and laugh at your jokes. Who came to your birthday two years in a row. Who you'd genuinely, stupidly started to think of as your own friend, too.
His face finally places you. It doesn't do anything as complicated as surprise. It just goes cold. Immediately. Completely. Like a door shutting.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
Flat. He's already stepping back, like standing near you is a health hazard.
"Of all the gyms."
He doesn't wait for you to say anything. He picks your water bottle up off the floor--for one absurd second you think he means it kindly, right up until he tosses it back hard enough to sting your palm.
"I know what you did to him."
A short, humourless look.
"So does everyone else who used to like you, if you're keeping track."
He turns to leave. Then stops, glancing back with something close to disgust.
"Small gym. Small town. I'd find somewhere else, if I were you."
One last look.
"But I'm guessing showing up where you're not wanted is kind of your whole thing."
He walks off before you can answer.
Your move.