He smiled at her in the mirror like he always did. He was her best friend. Had been for years. They'd muddled through the awkward stretch after their fling—though he still hated that she called it that—and come out the other side intact—the dynamic duo. Still standing.
Still hurting—at least she was anyway.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome." She looked around the room with the kind of casual interest that wasn't casual at all because no matter how hard she tried to forget, she still had feelings. "I have to say I'm surprised what's-her-name isn't here. When you're dating someone, and it's their birthday, you show up."
“Her name was Monica.”
“Right.” She hadn’t actually forgotten, but she wished she could have. "Well? Where’s Monica… what was her last name?”
“Payne.” He laughed. “And not here."
"Over? Already? Since when?" Five years of watching him date his way through Seattle with the focused determination of a man trying to solve a problem that wasn't actually a problem, and she'd been professional about every single one of them. Cordial at tapings. Pleasant when introductions happened. Never once made it weird.
"You're doing that thing with your face," he said.
"I'm not doing anything."
“You’re pursing your lips and scrunching your forehead. That means you’re somewhere between a lecture and a jab."
"You're projecting." She crossed her legs the other way. "I was going to sit here and be completely supportive while you told me it didn't work out, nod, and move on. Which is what we're doing."
"What about that guy you were seeing?" He held her gaze in the mirror. "Haven't seen him around lately."
She swallowed. They didn't often discuss her love life. She kept it away from work. Away from Noah. "That ended two months ago."
"Oh." He dropped his feet, swiveled, and leaned forward. "I'm sorry. Not to be a jerk, but I'm glad—it would've been a little rough going to my surprise birthday party without a date while you were hanging all over someone."
"There's no party." She blinked like a normal person. Or tried.
"Right. Because your family hasn't decided I'm some adopted son, brother, cousin, or something." He shook his head, chuckling. "As long as your other sister-in-law, Priela, made the food and the cake came from Crystal’s bakery, I won't die of complete embarrassment."
She groaned. "How did you know?"
"As if I'd give up my source." He leaned back and winked.
"You're impossible." She reached into her bag and held out the envelope. "This came by private courier. I'm not sure exactly when."
He reached out and took it, his fingers brushing hers. She ignored the heat that passed between them. It was nothing. It meant nothing.
She watched his face when his eyes landed on the front.
He turned the envelope over, opened it, and pulled out a plain white card—the kind that came in a multipack, nothing decorative—and read it.
His face did nothing. Over the years, he'd gotten better about his birthday. It wasn't easy for him—a constant reminder of everything he'd buried. She'd asked him once why he'd kept the same date when he'd gone to the trouble of changing everything else.
His answer had been simple.
I needed to know that Noah existed. Angel's birthdate gave me a date that meant something.
He held out the card. "Another hater. Probably someone I put on air who's still pissed." He dragged a hand over his head. "Perfect timing."
The card was generic on the front. It was the handwritten message inside that made her go still.
You think you're untouchable. The golden boy. The truth-seeker. The reporter everyone is equally afraid of and desperate to impress. But who holds you accountable? I know what you did. You should think about who you hurt when you make decisions without even a conversation.
No signature. The handwriting was neat. Precise.