Page 67 of The Exit Strategy

I wait for the moment Cole spots her, then study his face. What’s he thinking? Is Lola the type of woman he usually dates? Not that I care, obviously. I’m gathering facts. It’s what I do.

But a snort escapes my lips when he walks right past her. He doesn’t reroute, doesn’t hide, just continues to the end of the aisle because the paint section is not his problem today.

More surprisingly, Lola doesn’t follow. She barely even acknowledges him, and I frown between the two of them while trailing behind Cole.

“At least I don’t have to dodge her in the cereal aisle anymore.” He glances at the ring on my finger and smirks before carrying on to wherever he’s going.

The ring catches the fluorescent light, smug as ever, but at some point, I stopped working so hard to remove it. Even if Cole sees me staring at it and all its stupid happy rainbows that shoot off in every direction, he doesn’t comment on it.

Neither do I—it just joins the long list of shit we don’t talk about.

At 11:14on Tuesday morning, Grace tags Callahan Analytics in a post. This is the type of emotional warfare she excels at.

I have her notifications on, which is either strategic intelligence gathering or digital self-harm. Or most likely, a mix of both.

The post is a throwback photo of us at a company holiday party. I’d been invited during my internship at Callahan because I held “promise.” Paul was…somewhere, though I can’t remember his excuse now, so I’d dragged Grace along as my date.

We’re wearing matching red lipstick, and she captioned the photo:Missing my girl. Some friendships are worth fighting for, even when the other person doesn’t believe in forgiveness… #IAmSorry #accountability #healing

Accountability?

Accounta-fucking-bility?

Has she lost her ever-fucking mind? Never once has she apologized for anything.

She has well over a million followers now. She’s building an empire on the back of my heartbreak, and she’s using a photo where I thought we were friends to do it.

My thumbs slide across my phone typing out furious thoughts because what I thought would die down over time has turned into a snowball at the top of a very long mountain, and I can only stay silent for so long.

Accountability is a fascinating word choice from the womanwho practiced crying in my living room, hoping she’d land on a reality dating show while sleeping with her best friend’s boyfriend behind her back. Remember that? I do. I also remember whose credit card paid for that lipstick and shirt you’re wearing. But sure, Grace. Tell them about our friendship. Especially tell them how often and how hard you’ve betrayed me.

I stare at the draft through eyes that are too hot, too itchy. Seventy-one words that could blow her narrative apart, and she would deserve every single snake emoji she got.

My thumb hovers over send.

Old Junie—bar speech Junie, the version who lights matches just to watch shit burn—would hit send and deal with the wreckage later. But this version—the one with a routine and three p.m. coffee exchanges with Cole and the bruise under her collar that she’s still hiding, still savoring—hesitates.

Not because the words are wrong.

But because commenting means reentering the arena. Willfully becoming part of the storyline again. Giving Grace exactly what she wants—a reaction she can weaponize into another cycle of content.

And I’m so damn tired of being content. Of carrying other people’s trauma. I just want to be…happy.

My thumb hovers over Nana Mae’s ring as if somewhere along my twisted path it’s become my touchstone for happiness.

The burden of doing the right thing makes me itchy, but I close out of the app, put my phone face down on my desk, and press my palms into my eyes so hard that lights dance like technicolor rainbows.

When I open them, Cole’s in the doorway, silentlywatching me with the expression of a man who sees too much and says too little.

Will he ever speak up? Will I?

“Bad day?” he asks, setting a blueberry muffin in front of me.

It makes my heart feel too heavy in my chest. This man knows my favorite treats, my favorite movies, my likes and dislikes better than I do. But he won’t use any of it to ignite the attraction that sparks between us.

“Grace.” One word conveys an entire story.

His jaw ticks. “What did she do now?”