Sandwiches
There's a moment—a beat of calm before the storm, like the part in a rom-com where the music softens and everyone thinks things might actually work out.
But in real life?
That beat is usually just the universe clearing its throat before it throws a plot twist at your face.
And mine comes in the form of a text message. A cryptic, gut-punching, dream-shattering text message:
> "You really think that's the only secret he's keeping?"
I reread it five times. Maybe six. Still doesn't magically morph into a message about discount ice cream.
"Problem?" Eli asks, watching me like I'm about to combust. Which, fair.
"Define 'problem.'"
His face falls. "Is it Olivia again?"
Oh, buddy. If only.
I show him the phone. I watch his reaction like I'm Sherlock Holmes and he's a twitchy suspect. No flinch. No guilt. Just confusion.
"Is this a prank?"
"Not unless Olivia suddenly moonlighted as a mystery texter."
He sighs. "Look, I already told you everything. Italy, Olivia, the tragic proposal over linguine—"
"It was rigatoni."
"...Wow, okay. You're remembering pasta specifics now?"
"I'm Italian. We categorize our trauma in noodles."
He groans, but his smile is real.
Too real.
It makes me suspicious.
I take a step back. "You swear there's nothing else? No half-siblings hiding in basements? No weird inheritance clauses where you have to marry me to unlock a cursed bakery?"
"I—what? No! What kind of Netflix special are you imagining?!"
"Just covering my bases."
He grabs his phone, muttering. "Fine. I'm calling Olivia."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Brave."
He puts the phone on speaker. It rings once. Twice.
"Eli?"
Olivia's voice, smooth as silk and twice as suffocating.
"Hey," he says. "Did you text Hallie? From an unknown number?"
A pause.
Then she laughs. "Oh, honey. If I was going to ruin your new relationship, I wouldn't hide my number."
Click.
Call ends.
I blink. "Well, I weirdly respect her honesty."
Eli groans. "So that wasn't her. Which means someone else knows."
Knows what, though?
That's the real horror movie question.
The air between us thickens. Stale tension. Static nerves. He takes a step closer.
"I swear, Hallie. I told you everything."
And my heart wants to believe him. Desperately. It's waving pom-poms and doing trust-falls.
But my brain?
My brain's already putting together a string chart like it's auditioning for a conspiracy docuseries.
"Okay," I say finally. "But if another secret pops up, I get to throw a shoe."
"Agreed."
We shake on it.
And then, because the universe is nothing if not sadistic, the fire alarm goes off.
"Oh, come on!"
Turns out, Harper tried to toast a bagel. Forgot to take the wrapper off.
Ten minutes later, we're all standing outside the apartment in pajamas and judgement. Harper looks unbothered. Eli looks mildly traumatized. I just want to throw myself into the nearest bush and live there.
"Welp," Harper says, biting into an untoasted bagel, "at least we're bonding."
---
Two days later, everything seems back to normal.
Which is suspicious in and of itself.
But normal is nice. Normal is Eli texting me dumb memes, Harper threatening him with a glitter bomb if he messes up, and me not receiving cryptic texts from the Secret Spaghetti Society.
So obviously, something goes wrong.
It starts at the sandwich shop.
Eli's favorite. Small, cozy, overpriced. He insists it's worth it because the owner puts love and truffle oil in every bite.
We're standing in line, arguing over who gets the last pesto panini, when a voice behind me says:
"You always did like Italian boys."
I freeze.
Turn.
And there he is.
My ex.
Luke.
Luke the walking Pinterest board of pretentiousness. Luke who ghosted me after a four-year relationship with the eloquent message, "I need space. Also I joined a drum circle."
Eli stiffens beside me. "Friend of yours?"
I nearly choke on my own sarcasm. "More like a poltergeist."
Luke gives that smug, tooth-bleached smile. "I see you upgraded."
Eli crosses his arms. "We good here, man?"
Luke shrugs. "Sure. Just surprised you went from me to a knockoff Hemsworth."
Oh.
No, he didn't.
Before I can throat-punch him with a baguette, Eli steps forward.
"Cool. Now go sit with your drum circle."
Luke scowls. "You always let your girlfriend fight your battles?"
Eli smiles. The dangerous kind. "No. But she's better at it."
I want to marry him right there. Preferably while pelting Luke with pesto.
Luke scoffs and walks away.
"Okay," I say, heart pounding. "So that was dramatic."
Eli squeezes my hand. "You okay?"
"Only if I get to steal your sandwich."
"Absolutely not."
"Then I'm devastated."
---
That night, we sit on the couch, eating pasta (because of course), watching bad reality TV, and pretending nothing in the world can hurt us.
And for a minute, I believe it.
Until my phone buzzes.
New text. Same unknown number.
> "He's lying. Ask him about the boat."
The boat?
What boat?
I glance at Eli. He's laughing at something on screen. Totally unaware.
And suddenly, my stomach twists.
Because now I have to ask.
And maybe I don't want the answer.
But I tap his shoulder anyway.
"Eli. We need to talk."
His smile fades.