Too good to be true

For a moment, Sam didn’t feel anything.
Not the cool air of the gallery lobby as she passed through it. Not the press of the sidewalk beneath her feet. Not even the ache in her chest, the one that had bloomed somewhere between “I'm William’s girlfriend” and “It’s fine, really”.
She just walked.
Down the street, past a wine bar spilling laughter into the evening air, past a pair of girls in strappy heels who turned to admire the art show poster taped to the glass window. She kept her arms crossed, phone still cold in her hand, unread message still sitting on his end of the screen.
Maybe he’d see it now.
Maybe that was the worst part—that she’d believed he hadn’t reached out because he was nervous, or trying to be respectful, or waiting for the show. She’d imagined a hundred possible explanations, all of them somehow believable. Forgivable.
But none of them involved another woman calling herself his girlfriend.
Sam stopped walking.
The night was warm, but her skin felt like ice. She leaned against the brick wall of a closed bakery, letting the silence soak in. A streetlight buzzed above her. Someone’s music drifted from an open car window. A soft piano track, too tender for the chaos inside her.
She looked down at her phone again.
Nothing.
And she didn’t know what to do with that. With the almost of it all.
Because for a moment, back in that gallery, it had felt like something. The way Liam had looked at her—really looked at her—like he’d been waiting all night to see her. Like he meant what he said. Like the painting had been hers too.
She hadn’t imagined that, right?
But Anisha had been there, and she hadn’t been quiet about it. Her voice was still echoing in Sam’s ears. “I’m William’s girlfriend”.
Girlfriend.
The word scraped across Sam’s thoughts like a needle on vinyl.
She hated that she didn’t even know what to feel. Hurt? Embarrassed? Angry?
Mostly, she just felt… stupid.
Stupid for showing up. For getting dressed and taking the day off and hoping this meant something. For letting herself want something she didn’t fully understand.
She should’ve known that he was too good to be true.
A car drove past and she caught her reflection in the glass storefront behind her. She looked tired. Still pretty, maybe, but in that dim way you feel after a long day pretending you’re fine.
She sighed and opened her messages.
James.
Let me know if you’re heading back soon. I can wait up. Hope it’s going okay.
She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. Then she typed:
“Yeah, I’ll be back soon. Don’t wait up though. I’m okay”.
Send.
A lie. But not a big one. Just enough.
She slipped her phone back into her pocket and pushed away from the wall.
Whatever this thing with Liam had been, or almost was, it wasn’t hers anymore. She wasn’t going to beg for it. She wasn’t going to stand in the same room while another woman called him by his full name.
Not when she had gotten used to calling him Liam.
A few more steps took her to the corner. The streetlight blinked lazily above her, and she raised a hand as a cab turned down the road. It slowed without hesitation, headlights casting a soft glow over her.
She climbed in without looking back.
“Silver Lake,” she said, voice steady.
The driver gave a short nod and pulled away from the curb. The engine hummed low. She leaned her head against the window, watching Los Angeles slip past in hazy streaks of gold, red and neon.
By the time they reached her building, the ache in her chest had settled into something quieter. Not gone. Just folded away. A kind of practiced sadness.
She paid the driver, mumbled a soft “Thanks,” and climbed the stairs with her keys already in hand.
The apartment was quiet when Sam stepped inside.
She shut the door gently behind her, like she didn’t want to wake something fragile. Even though James was very much awake, his socked feet were hanging off the edge of the couch, his headphones perched loosely around his neck. The TV played something with a sword fight and terrible accents, but his eyes were already on her the second she walked in.
“You’re back early,” he said, slowly sitting up. “You okay?”
Sam hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It wasn’t a lie, technically. Her feet ached, and her heart felt like it had done a marathon without telling the rest of her.
James squinted at her. “Was it... a bad date?”
She blinked. “What?”
He raised an eyebrow, expression mild but clearly too proud of himself. “You told me not to wait up. Wore your hair down. Left here looking all suspicious. I figured it out, Sherlock-style.”
Sam sighed and set her bag down by the counter. “I didn’t say it was a date.”
“You said—and I quote—‘I’m going to something tonight. Might be important.’” He made finger quotes in the air, his voice dramatically higher. “Which is so vague, it’s either a job interview or a date. And no one does job interviews at 7 p.m. wearing perfume.”
She shot him a look. “Okay, okay. Maybe I said it like that.”
He gave a little fist pump, then added, “I was excited, you know? I mean, you haven’t been on a date since like—what, Obama?”
She groaned. “Exaggerate harder, why don’t you.”
He grinned, but his tone softened. “I just mean… it’s been a while.”
She sat on the armrest beside him, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Yeah. I guess it has.”
There was a beat of silence. The fight scene on the TV resolved in someone screaming dramatically in French.
“So?” James prompted gently. “What happened?”
Sam stared at the muted television. “It was going fine. It really was. I walked in and saw him, and—he looked at me like he meant it. Like he was glad I came.”
James didn’t say anything. Just let her talk.
“I thought we were good,” she continued, quietly. “Until a woman showed up. Said she was his girlfriend.”
His head tilted. “Was she?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and that was the part that hurt most. “He looked surprised. But not... completely. And I just—couldn’t stand there. Not after that. So I left.”
James leaned forward, arms braced on his knees. “Did he try to explain?”
“He tried to stop me, but I didn’t give him a chance.” Her voice faltered. “I didn’t want to hear it.”
She didn’t say how fast she’d walked. How she hadn’t looked back even though her heart begged her to. That was between her and the quiet.
James nodded slowly, then got up and disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back, he handed her a glass of orange juice—cold, sweet, and oddly comforting.
“Thanks,” she said, a little confused.
“You looked like you needed something,” he said. “And we’re out of wine.”
She laughed, short and tired. “You’re so dramatic.”
He winked. “Runs in the family.”
She took a sip. Then another. The coolness helped clear the lump in her throat, even if just for a second.
“You want to talk more about it?” he asked, softer now.
She shook her head. “Maybe tomorrow.”
He didn’t push. Just nodded and turned the volume back up on the show. But he didn’t put his headphones on. He stayed beside her. Present.
And Sam sat there for a while, holding the glass, letting the fizz settle and the night drift quietly around them.
Liam was probably still in that gallery. But she wasn’t there anymore.
And somehow, that felt final.