I continued walking, not bothering to reply. In the elevator, I pulled out my phone and opened our chat history. 5,363 messages. That’s how many I had sent him over the years. He had only replied to 25. The numbers stung, but I could only smirk at the absurdity of it all.
Later that night, around 8 p.m., my phone rang. Ethan’s name flashed on the screen.
“Where are you?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
I sat in a diner, picking at my food. “What’s up?” I sidestepped his question.
“Nothing much,” he said softly, almost awkwardly. “The cake you made was delicious, as always. Thanks. I know it was a lot of effort.”
Before I could respond, I heard Fiona’s overly sweet voice in the background.
“Skylar! I heard from Ethan that you made my birthday cake today. Wow, you’re so talented!” she gushed. “I wish I could bake like you, but I’m so clumsy. Ethan always calls me his little dummy.”
Her voice dripped with fake innocence, and before I could even process what she said, she invited me to the party.