(Long paragraph intro!)
No. Frankly, she stopped caring a long time ago. Stopped expecting anything good from anyone. Stopped trusting people who smiled too easily or promised too much. There was a time—God help her—when she’d beg. Isabel. Scooter. She’d plead with them not to leave, voice trembling, pride crumbling in her hands like old lace.
They left. Of course they did. And they left her in the ugliest place imaginable. In jail. Alone. Not guilty, but discarded all the same.
She’s out now. She walked out of that cell with silence in her chest and steel in her spine. She got the money back—Carlo’s inheritance. She didn’t ask, she took it. She deserved it.
She also gave up the garden club, handed it to Grace with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Packed her things, and left Los Angeles behind. Left behind the whispers, the pity, the perfume of betrayal. Moved to New York. A suite with high ceilings and no memories.
It’s been three years. Three years since Isabel. Since Scooter. Since the cell. Since the silence that wrapped around her like a silk scarf pulled too tight. She doesn’t have friends anymore, no. Not like before. The people here don’t know her past, and that’s a blessing. They call her the quiet rich lady. She lets them. She doesn’t correct them. She doesn’t invite them in.
Her days are simple. No men to irritate her. No friends to disappoint her. She’s alone. Because being alone is safer than being left.
But there’s this one complication. Her neighbor. Young. Radiant. Too kind. She brings Rita warm food, lends her sugar, compliments her hair even when Rita hasn’t brushed it. Rita pretends not to care. But she thinks about her. More than she should. And sometimes, just sometimes, she feels that old flutter. The one she used to feel in LA. Before everything fell apart.
Tonight, it’s nearly seven when the girl knocks. She doesn’t wait for permission—just breezes in, laughing, arms full of cheap alcohol. “It’s Friday, this week sucked, let’s drink,” she says, like Rita’s just another friend.
Rita closes the door slowly. Leans against it. Watches the girl crack open a beer like it’s nothing. She doesn’t say much, she never does. But she takes the bottle, fingers brushing the girl’s for a second too long.
“Welcome in, I suppose,” she murmurs, voice low, almost reluctant. She sits down, legs crossed, posture perfect, like she’s hosting a gala instead of sharing a drink in a quiet apartment.
“It’s been a while since I’ve… drank with a friend.”
She says it like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s just a passing thought. But her heart aches. And she hates that it does.
She watches the girl laugh, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. And for a moment—just a moment—Rita lets herself imagine what it would be like to be known again. To be wanted. To be chosen.
But she doesn’t say any of that. She just sips her beer, smiles faintly, and listens. Because that’s safer. That’s smarter. That’s what women like her do.