Chapter 3

• Chapter Three
• Serena POV
• Saturday afternoons used to mean something.
• A walk in the park. A matinee. A bagel and a brownstone stoop and laughter that didn’t come with caveats.
• Now?
• Now I’m pacing my loft like a caged animal, Earl Grey gone cold, and the carrot cake still untouched on the counter like it’s mourning with me.
• I tried reading.
• Tried journaling.
• Even tried organizing my closet, which, let’s be honest, is more aspirational than practical when your entire wardrobe lives in a six-foot IKEA rack and a dream.
• But nothing’s working.
• Julian Cross.
• That name. That fucking magazine cover. That history.
• It’s been hours since I saw it, but it’s still stuck in my head like a song I didn’t ask for.
• Ava’s usually the cure for days like this. We’d be out somewhere, drinking overpriced cocktails with fresh thyme in them and judging everyone around us. But she’s working an event downtown today, some charity gala with a red carpet and a bunch of celebs who think saying “diversity” three times in a speech means something.
• I could’ve tagged along, sure.
• But that would mean getting dressed. Putting on heels. Smiling. Pretending.
• And I’m not in the mood to pretend today.
• So here I am, sitting cross-legged on my too-small couch in my too-expensive loft, wrapped in a throw blanket I probably stole from Ava’s place, watching shadows move across my floor like they’re telling secrets I’ll never understand.
• My phone buzzes.
• It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.
• Unknown:
• Did you see the cover? You okay?
• No name. Just that.
• My heart kicks.
• I should ignore it.
• I want to ignore it.
• But I type back anyway.
• Me:
• Who is this?
• Three dots. Then nothing.
• Then finally…
• Unknown:
• Someone who remembers what you built with him. And what he lost.
• I stare at the screen.
• And just like that, the spiral starts all over again.
• ***
• Julian POV
• I shouldn’t have come.
• I knew how the day would end before it even started, trapped at some polished dining table with too many forks and not enough patience, surrounded by the kind of people who think vulnerability is a liability and marriage is a merger.
• But I made a promise.
• Dinner with Madison’s parents. Again.
• The car ride over is quiet. Too quiet. Madison is scrolling through her phone, probably looking for new designers to tag in her posts or drafting a caption about manifesting abundance and luxury. I’m staring out the window, wondering what the fuck happened to the kid who used to dream about flipping the world upside down, not playing house in someone else’s version of paradise.
• By the time we step into the restaurant wing of the club, her parents are already seated at their preferred table, sipping wine that costs more than what Serena and I paid in rent for six months.
• Martin Carter spots us and stands, arms out like he’s greeting royalty. “There he is! The man of the hour!”
• I give him a nod, measured and polite. “Martin.”
• Madison kisses her mother on both cheeks like she’s posing for a holiday card. I take my seat across from Martin, forcing a smile as a server in a white jacket sashays over with a wine list like this is a scene from a movie I didn’t audition for.
• Martin wastes no time. “You know, I was just telling Helen we should start looking at venues.”
• My stomach tightens.
• “Venues?” I echo.
• “For the engagement party,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Once the announcement goes public, of course. Can’t have the press finding out before the family.”
• I glance at Madison. Her expression is bright, expectant. Like this is just the next box we’re checking on the pre-approved life plan.
• I lean back in my chair and let out a slow breath, then say calmly, “We might be getting ahead of ourselves, don’t you think?”
• Martin chuckles, waving it off. “Nonsense. Three years is more than enough time to know. Unless there’s something you’re not telling us?”
• There’s so much I’m not telling you.
• Like how the only proposal I ever truly imagined involved a ring from a thrift shop, a rooftop view of the Bronx skyline, and a girl who smelled like vanilla and ambition.
• Instead, I say, “I think we should enjoy dinner. No need to turn it into a negotiation.”
• Helen shifts uncomfortably. Madison goes quiet, that tight smile still plastered on like fresh paint over cracks.
• The rest of the dinner is a blur of empty praise, stock market talk, and wine I don’t taste. I nod when I’m supposed to. Laugh on cue. Smile like a puppet who once had dreams.
• But in my mind, I’m a thousand miles away.
• Back in a too-small apartment with peeling paint and candlelight.
• Back with Serena Eslinger.
• Before everything I wanted became everything I lost.
• ***
• Serena POV
• I don’t want to play games.
• I don’t want to spiral.
• And I sure as hell don’t want to think about Julian fucking Cross.
• It’s taken years, and I mean years, plus enough money in therapy to buy a mid-sized car, to finally get over that man.
• Not just the break-up.
• The undoing.
• Because that’s what it felt like. Not a clean break. Not some mutually agreed-upon fork in the road. It was a dismantling. A slow, painful unthreading of my soul from his, one skipped phone call and missed promise at a time.
• And then that stupid magazine cover shows up like a slap in the face wrapped in high-gloss print.
• I delete the unknown text.
• Block the number.
• I don’t care if it’s Noah.
• I don’t care if it’s some ex-CrossTech intern with a guilty conscience and a soft spot for underdogs.
• I’m done playing the girl who mourns what could’ve been.
• I close my laptop. Pull on an oversized sweater. The kind that still smells faintly like cinnamon and fall because Ava sprayed it with her seasonal linen mist like she was warding off evil spirits, or exes.
• I grab my keys.
• No makeup. No plan. Just motion.
• Brooklyn streets stretch out before me like old friends. The air is crisp, leaves skittering across sidewalks, dogs barking at squirrels, someone blasting ’90s R&B from an open window like the universe knew I needed a soundtrack. And I will go toe to toe with anyone who argues with me on the ’90s being the best era for music. Bet!
• I walk with no destination.
• I pass the bookstore I used to drag Julian into. He’d pretend to complain, then spend an hour thumbing through business bios and flipping to the acknowledgments just to see who gave a shit.
• I pass the bodega with the best Cafecito outside the Bronx.
• And I don’t think about the way he used to charm the cashier in Spanglish, or how they’d save the corner booth for us on cold mornings when we needed heat and caffeine more than food.
• I keep walking.
• Because nostalgia is a liar.
• And I’m not going back there.
• I’ve rebuilt too much.
• Fought too hard.
• I am not some girl waiting for her past to show up and make amends.
• Julian Cross is a memory.
• Not a possibility.
• And I’m not giving him one more damn day.
• I don’t even realize where I’m headed until I’m halfway there.
• Two trains, one transfer, and just enough time to second-guess my life choices.
• Some people find comfort in new things.
• I find mine in old rituals I’ve twisted into survival tactics.
• The place is still here, thank God.
• Tucked between a bodega that never updates its signage and a laundromat that smells like lavender and burnt dryer sheets, the little Dominican spot doesn’t look like much from the outside. It never did.
• But inside?
• Inside is heaven.
• Warm rice. Juicy pernil. Maduros caramelized just right. And that rich, garlic-laced mojo that sticks to your ribs and makes you forget you’re sad, broke, or heartbroken.
• Back in the day, this place was ours.
• Julian found it on some obscure food blog when he was in one of his manic deep dives on “hidden culinary gems of the boroughs.” We were living in the Bronx at the time, barely scraping by, and it took us two trains, an hour, and a whole-ass afternoon to get here.
• But the second we stepped inside, smelled the air, and took our first bite, we knew.
• It became our place.
• Our reward.
• Our celebration.
• Our escape.
• Birthdays. Launch milestones. Days when rent got paid and we didn’t have to borrow from the overdraft gods. This spot marked our little victories.
• And when I finally had enough in my bank account to live without counting quarters at the corner store, I moved to Brooklyn. Not because it was trendy or walkable or had rooftop wine bars.
• I moved here because of this place.
• Because I wanted it in reach.
• Because I wanted to rewrite the story.
• Because I wanted something we loved to become something I claimed.
• I step inside and the smell hits me like a memory.
• The woman behind the counter smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges. “You haven’t been in a while.”
• “No,” I say, returning the smile. “But I never forget.”
• I order our usual. My usual now.
• Arroz con gandules. Pernil with the burnt edges. Extra maduros. And a bottle of Country Club soda, grape flavored, because Julian used to say it tasted like childhood and cavities.
• I slide into the same seat we always chose, corner table by the window, and dig in.
• It’s warm.
• It’s messy.
• It’s comforting.
• It’s him.
• But it’s also me now.
• Because I made it here.
• I stayed.
• I survived.
• And this taste?
• It doesn’t belong to Julian Cross anymore.
• It belongs to me.
• “¡Mira quién es!”
• I look up mid-bite to see Lucía, one of the long-time waitresses, beaming at me like I just walked in wearing a crown.
• She’s older now, hair streaked with gray and piled high in a bun, but her smile is the same. Wide, no-nonsense, and nosy as hell in the best way.
• “Lucía,” I say, swallowing quickly and wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Dios mío, how are you?”
• “Estoy bien, mija. But you?” She places a hand on her hip. “You disappeared like my nephew when the check comes or the first of the month.”
• I laugh. Genuinely. The first real one all day.
• “I moved nearby,” I tell her. “Just been… busy. You know how it goes.”
• “Mmmhm. Busy with life or busy avoiding the gringo with the bad Spanish?”
• And there it is.
• I freeze for half a second, caught between a laugh and a sigh.
• She grins. “What was his name? El que always said ‘muy delicioso’ like he was in a telenovela?”
• “Julian,” I say, voice softer now. “Julian Cross.”
• She snaps her fingers. “¡Sí, ese! El cute one with the sad puppy eyes y los zapatos caros. Always paid in cash like he was hiding from la IRS.”
• I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “That was him.”
• Lucía leans against the side of my table, arms crossed. “You two used to sit right here. Every time. Ordered the same thing. You were always laughing. What happened?”
• I glance out the window. “We… grew apart.”
• Which is the nicest possible way to say he accused me of theft and left me for power and polish and his cock forgot how to find his way back.
• Lucía clicks her tongue. “Hmph. Well, he was lucky. You were good for him. Too good, if you ask me.”
• “I didn’t,” I say playfully.
• She winks. “Doesn’t mean I won’t give the opinion.”
• Then she softens, placing a hand over mine. “It’s good to see you, mija. Don’t stay away so long next time.”
• “I won’t,” I whisper.
• She moves off toward another table, and I sit there, chewing slowly, heart a little heavier but somehow… less hollow.
• He’s still here. In memories, in stories, in the way people say his name with a smile.
• But I’m still here, too.
• And that matters more.