Sunday mornings were supposed to be about pancakes and peace. Sunshine streaming in, birds chirping, maybe some soft jazz if you’re into that sort of thing.
The morning came like a wrecking ball straight to my nervous system.
I stood in front of my closet, hands on my hips, glaring at my own clothes like they were the real enemy.
Because honestly? They kind of were. What was I even supposed to wear to a Sunday brunch with family after I’d already announced the small, insignificant detail that...oh hey, I am getting divorced.
A sundress felt too cheerful. A blazer screamed look at me, pretending I have my life together. Jeans and a T-shirt? Might as well come with a neon sign saying "yes, I’m spiraling, thanks for asking."
By the time I yanked out a pale blue dress, my stomach was already tying itself into origami cranes. My brain, of course, chose this exact moment to replay every comment made by my mother when I told her about my decision.
I could even imagine how her facial expression would have changed. Those wide eyes, the hushed whispers, the perfectly timed, "Oh, sweetheart, are you sure?" Like my divorce was a bad haircut, I might regret in a week.
Even my mother-in-law called after I moved in with Caroline. She kept talking a if I was just going through some phase.
A phase. Like I was suddenly thirteen again, wearing too much eyeliner and listening to sad rock ballads in my room. Except this wasn’t some angsty rebellion; this was my actual life collapsing.
I could still hear her voice in my ear, soft but dripping with that condescending sweetness: "Marriage is hard, darling. You don’t just run off when it gets complicated. Every couple fights. You’ll see—he’ll calm down, you’ll calm down, and everything will go back to normal."
What a joke. There was nothing normal about Dave.
I paced my room, pale blue dress still dangling from my hand, wondering how on earth I was supposed to sit across a table from people who thought my pain was optional. That I could just... undo my decision like a bad recipe.
The brunch table would be a battlefield of polite smiles, subtle jabs, and under-the-breath judgments.
The worst part? I wasn’t even angry at them anymore. I was just tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.
And tired made me sloppy. Tired made me want to crawl into bed and pretend the world didn’t exist. But tired also meant I didn’t have the strength to fake it anymore.
Which, spoiler alert, was exactly what brunch required?
An Olympic-level performance of smiles, nods, and carefully measured sentences that gave nothing away.
I tossed the dress on the bed and collapsed beside it, staring up at the ceiling like maybe God would text me an outfit suggestion.
No such luck. The silence was so loud, my own thoughts started bouncing around like rogue ping-pong balls.
Wear the dress. Don’t wear the dress. Tell them the truth. No, shut up. Smile. Cry. Be strong. Be weak.
I dragged my hands down my face. "I hate brunch. I officially hate brunch."
The thing was, no matter how much I hated it, I couldn’t avoid it. Not showing up would be like blood in the water. They’d circle me even harder. At least if I showed up, I could throw on a smile and try to keep control of the narrative.
Ha. Like I had control over anything these days.
I finally wriggled into the pale blue dress, hating how fragile it made me look, and went to the mirror. My reflection was... fine. Just fine. Hair straightened enough, makeup light but present, eyes screaming, "help me." Perfect.
My phone buzzed again—another reminder. Eleven o’clock. Which meant I had, what, forty minutes to pull myself together, get there, and not vomit on the table?
I grabbed my bag and shoes as I left my room.
Dave stood in the hallway, busy on his phone.
But not in his usual crisp shirt and pressed pants, the kind of look that screamed "serious" and "untouchable."
No, this time he was in a soft charcoal Henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and dark jeans that looked unfairly good on him.
His hair was messier than usual, not the carefully combed style I’d grown used to, but... intentional.
Effortlessly intentional.
It threw me off balance. This wasn’t the version of him I knew how to armor myself against.
"You’re..." I blurted, before my brain caught up. "...casual."
His mouth quirked, like he was in on some joke I wasn’t. "Don’t sound so surprised. I do own clothes without collars."
I blinked at him because, honestly, it did surprise me.
This wasn’t the Dave who showed up to brunches like he was attending a board meeting.
This was different. Softer. More human.
"Right," I muttered, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "I just...didn’t expect it." Holy Lord, I need to stop nervous talking.
"Well," he said, straightening a little, "Grandpa insisted it wasn’t anything formal. Figured I’d try something different."
Different. Yeah, that was one word for it. Unsettling was another.
Because he looked good. Too good.
The kind of good that made my stomach twist in ways I did not have the energy to deal with today. Atleast, the my eyes would not be bored.
He let his eyes flick over me, just once, quick but deliberate. "You look... nice."
The word landed clumsy, but his tone wasn’t mocking. That almost made it worse.
"Don’t," I said quietly, staring at a spot just past his shoulder.
"Say things like that."
His jaw tightened giving me a ’Why in the world not?’ look. To which I responded with my ’Because you never did that. Ever’ look
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air in the hallway felt too thick, pressing against my lungs.
Finally, I exhaled and nodded toward the door. "Let’s just go. The sooner we get there, the sooner it’s over."
He didn’t argue as he muttered, "Agreed." The tone seemed dripping off sarcasm like bitter cough syrup.
God, his one word reply phase again started.
Grabbing his keys off the table, he headed out.
Jesus, I pissed him off. And the possibility of him leaving me here and taking the cab was 99.99%.
Grabbing my heels, I stormed out the apartment not caring about running barefoot.