The posts went up on a Saturday.
I know because I was sitting on my kitchen floor with a cup of coffee that had gone cold, going through a campaign brief I'd been ignoring all week, when my phone lit up with a notification. A mutual follow — someone from the Kennedy Group's PR circle — had tagged a location. The Hamptons. I didn't mean to look. I looked anyway.
Dior's story was already at the top of the queue.
The first one was the dock. Golden light, the kind that only exists in the last hour before sunset, and Hector's arm visible at the edge of the frame — just his arm, just enough. Her hand resting on it with the casual ease of someone who had been touching that arm her whole life. Which, I supposed, she had. The caption was a single emoji. A small anchor.
I set my phone face-down on the floor.
I picked it back up.
The second story was a video. Thirty seconds of the veranda, the sound of the water, and Dior's voice saying something I couldn't quite catch before Hector laughed — that specific low laugh I knew from the dark of early mornings and the back of cabs and every private moment I had spent three years collecting like they were mine to keep. The caption referenced something from their childhood. An inside joke. The kind that comes with a history I was never part of.
The third one was a photo. Just the house, the light, the water in the distance. One word.
*Home.*
I sat with that for a long time.
The thing about Dior Martinez is that she is very good at what she does. Every post was technically nothing. A friend visiting a family estate. A candid moment. A pretty view. If you showed any one of them to a stranger, they would see nothing. But I was not a stranger, and I understood exactly what she was doing, and I understood that she knew I would understand, and that was the whole point. This was not for Manhattan's social circle. This was for me.
I finished my cold coffee. I washed the mug. I stood at my kitchen window and looked at the street below — a woman walking a dog, a kid on a bike, the ordinary Saturday morning of a neighborhood that had nothing to do with Hamptons estates or family legacies or the specific cruelty of a well-timed Instagram story.
Then I called Braylon.
He picked up on the first ring, which meant he was already awake and probably already running. I could hear the faint rhythm of his breathing.
"I need to ask you something," I said. "And I need you to know that you can say no."
He slowed down. I heard the shift. "Okay."
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend." I said it fast, the way you say things you've been rehearsing. "Publicly. Convincingly. Long enough for Hector to believe I've moved on and stop — " I stopped. Started again. "I need him to let go of me, Braylon. And I don't think he will unless he thinks someone else already has me."
Silence. Not the uncomfortable kind. The Braylon kind — the kind where I knew he was thinking, not stalling.
"I know it's a lot to ask," I said.
"It's not," he said.
Just that. No conditions. No questions about what it would cost him, no careful negotiation of terms. I told myself it was because he was a good friend. I told myself that was enough.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me yet," he said. "You're going to have to actually look like you're having fun."
I laughed. It surprised me — the realness of it, the way it came up without warning. "I can manage that."
"I know you can," he said. "I'll pick you up at eight."
---
The bar was in Williamsburg, a rooftop place with string lights and a view of the bridge and the kind of crowd that was young and loud and entirely uninterested in Manhattan's social register. I wore a dress I had bought on a whim from a vintage shop on Bedford Avenue — rust-colored, nothing special, mine. Braylon showed up in a jacket that actually fit him for once, which I told him, and he said he'd had it for two years and I'd just never paid attention, which was probably true.
We got drinks. We found a spot near the railing. The city spread out below us, all that light, and for a moment I just stood there and breathed it in.
"You okay?" Braylon asked.
"Getting there," I said.
He nodded. He didn't push. He never pushed.
We talked the way we always talked — easy, circular, the kind of conversation that doesn't need to go anywhere because the company is already the point. He told me about a case that was making him insane. I told him about the campaign brief I'd been avoiding. He stole a fry from my plate without asking, which he had been doing since we were fifteen, and I moved the plate closer to him without comment, which I had been doing just as long.
At some point he said something that made me laugh — really laugh, the kind that tips your head back — and his arm came around my shoulders, easy and warm, and I leaned into it without thinking.
"Now," he said quietly.
I took out my phone. One photo. The bridge in the background, the lights, Braylon's arm around me and my face still open from laughing. I looked, in that photo, like a woman who was doing just fine.
I posted it without a caption and put my phone back in my bag.
---
Dior saw it first. I knew because within twenty minutes, her Hamptons stories had disappeared from her profile entirely — scrubbed clean, as if they had never existed. That told me everything I needed to know about how carefully she had been watching.
Hector saw it twenty minutes after that.
I wasn't there, obviously. I didn't see his face. But I knew him — I knew the particular stillness that came over him when something landed that he hadn't prepared for, the way his jaw would set and his hands would go quiet on whatever surface they were resting on. I had watched that stillness from across boardroom tables and restaurant booths and the dark of early mornings when he thought I was asleep.
I knew, without seeing it, that he went very still at his desk on the forty-second floor.
I knew it the way I had known the phone call was coming in that restaurant in Carroll Gardens, the way I had known he was at my door before I opened it. Some knowledge lives in the body before it reaches the mind.
Braylon and I stayed until the bar got too loud to talk over. On the way back to Queens, we got coffee from a cart on the bridge and walked part of the way, the city doing what it always did — indifferent, enormous, ongoing.
"You think it worked?" I asked.
Braylon looked at the water for a moment. "Yeah," he said. "I think it worked."
He didn't sound happy about it. I noticed that. I filed it away in the part of myself that was too tired, right then, to look at it directly.
"Thank you," I said again.
He handed me the rest of his coffee because mine had gone cold. "Stop thanking me," he said.
I stopped.
