Chapter 3: Mimosas and the Confession
The mimosa was warm. Scarlet had been holding it for twenty minutes without drinking, the glass sweating condensation onto her fingers, and the orange juice had long since separated from the champagne in a pale, unappetizing swirl.
Priya watched her from across the booth, fork suspended halfway to her mouth, eggs forgotten.
"You're not eating."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're never not hungry." Priya set the fork down. The clink of metal against ceramic cut through the restaurant's morning hum—silverware and chatter and the occasional burst of laughter from the bottomless-mimosa crowd at the bar. "You ordered the avocado toast. You love avocado toast. You once told me you'd marry avocado toast if it were legal."
"I'm reconsidering my commitments."
Priya's eyes narrowed. She was good at this—reading the spaces between Scarlet's words, the pauses that lasted a beat too long, the smiles that didn't quite reach the eyes. She'd been doing it since college, since the first time Scarlet showed up at her dorm room at 3 AM with mascara running down her cheeks and no explanation for where she'd been.
"Okay." Priya pushed her plate aside. Leaned forward. "Spill."
"Spill what?"
"Don't." Her voice was flat. "Don't do that thing where you pretend everything's fine. I've known you for twelve years. I can smell the guilt on you like cheap perfume."
Scarlet's fingers tightened around the glass. The condensation dripped onto the marble table, a small, perfect circle of water that spread and blurred like a stain.
"I saw Ollie."
Priya's expression didn't change. That was the thing about Priya—she never flinched. She just waited, patient and unblinking, until you gave her everything.
"When?"
"Tuesday. The storm." Scarlet took a breath that didn't quite reach her lungs. "I was walking home from dinner with Marcus, and the rain started, and I just—I ended up outside the bookstore. I don't even know how. My feet just carried me there."
"Your feet."
"Yes."
"Your feet carried you three miles out of your way to your ex-lover's bookstore."
Scarlet winced. "When you say it like that—"
"How else should I say it?" Priya signaled the waiter for another round. "Keep going."
The waiter appeared, swapped their glasses, vanished. Scarlet watched the bubbles rise in the fresh mimosa like tiny, desperate prayers.
"I went inside. He was there. Behind the counter. Sleeves rolled up." She closed her eyes. "He remembered how I take my coffee."
"Of course he did." Priya's voice was dry. "The man's been memorizing you since you were eighteen. He probably knows the exact frequency of your moans."
"Priya."
"Am I wrong?"
No. She wasn't wrong.
Scarlet opened her eyes. The restaurant blurred at the edges, the golden morning light too bright, too cheerful, too much for the thing clawing at her chest.
"He asked me if I remembered crawling into his bed when Duncan was passed out."
Priya's eyebrow arched. "Duncan. The finance bro you dated sophomore year. The one who used to call you 'sweetheart' in that condescending way."
"The same."
"The one who passed out drunk every weekend and left you alone in his apartment while he snored through entire movies."
"Yes."
"And you'd leave him there. Walk across campus. Climb through Ollie's window." Priya's voice was careful, measured. "And fuck him until sunrise."
Scarlet's face burned. "I didn't—it wasn't always—"
"It wasn't always what? Sex?" Priya leaned back, arms crossed. "Scar, you used to come back to the dorm at 6 AM with hickeys on your neck and this blissed out look on your face. Like you'd been to church and confessed all your sins."
"Maybe I had."
"Or maybe you'd been fucked senseless by a man who actually knew your body." Priya picked up her fresh mimosa, took a long sip. "There's a difference."
The words hung in the air between them. Scarlet could feel the ghost of Oliver's fingers on her skin—the way they'd curled inside her, the way his thumb had pressed against her clit, the way he'd whispered filth into her ear until she came so hard she had to bite her own fist to keep from screaming.
She hadn't slept with him. Not Tuesday night. He'd left her hanging, aching, unfinished, with a whisper about next storms and a kiss pressed to her forehead that had felt more like a brand than a benediction.
She'd gone home and showered. Scrubbed herself raw. Climbed into bed beside Marcus and stared at the ceiling until dawn, her body still humming with the memory of Oliver's touch.
"He didn't even fuck me," she said.
Priya choked on her mimosa. "Excuse me?"
"He just—his fingers. Against the storeroom door." Scarlet's voice dropped to a whisper. "He said he remembered how I used to come crawl into his bed. How I'd show up at 2 AM and strip out of my clothes and slide under his sheets. And then he had me pinned and his fingers were inside me and he was saying all this—this filth—about how he used to fuck me slow and deep until I forgot Duncan's name—"
"Jesus Christ."
"—and I came so hard I had to bite my own fist to keep from screaming." Scarlet's hand drifted unconsciously to her mouth, touching the tender spot where her teeth had broken skin. "And then he just... stopped. Pulled his fingers out. Licked them clean. Told me he'd see me next storm."
Priya was silent for a long moment. The restaurant hummed around them—clinking glasses, scraping forks, a baby crying somewhere near the windows.
"Okay," Priya said finally. "I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest."
"I'm always honest with you."
"You're honest with me about ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent, you're lying to yourself so hard you can't tell the difference." Priya set down her glass with a sharp click. "Did you sleep with him?"
"Tuesday?No. I told you—"
"Not Tuesday. Ever. Since the engagement. Since Marcus. Since you decided to become a respectable woman with a respectable future and a respectable man who doesn't make you feel like you're going to hell every time you look at him."
Scarlet's throat tightened.
"Scar."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth." Priya's voice was gentle now. Gentle and implacable. "The full, filthy inventory. Every name.Every night. Every time Ollie's cock found its way inside you while some other man slept believing he was the only one."
The words hit her like a slap. Scarlet's eyes stung. She blinked rapidly, staring at the deconstructed avocado toast, at the smear of egg yolk, at the reflection in the window that showed a woman she barely recognized.
"Duncan wasn't even the only boyfriend I cheated on with Ollie, Priya."
The confession hung in the air, small and devastating.
Priya didn't flinch. She just picked up her fork and pointed it at Scarlet like a weapon. "Start from the beginning. And don't leave anything out."
Scarlet's hands were shaking. She wrapped them around her mimosa, but the cold glass did nothing to steady her.
"What do you remember?" she asked.
"I remember that you were with James when you first met Ollie. The philosophy major with the terrible beard and the worse poetry."
"The beard wasn't terrible."
"It looked like a hedgehog died on his chin." Priya waved a hand. "You met Ollie at a party. You were drunk. You told him you liked his hands."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did. You told me the next morning. You said—and I quote—'He has the hands of a man who knows how to use them.'"
Scarlet groaned. "I was nineteen and drunk."
"You were nineteen and horny. There's a difference." Priya leaned forward. "What happened after the party?"
"I went home with James."
"And?"
"And I couldn't stop thinking about Ollie. His hands. His eyes. The way he looked at me like he could see right through my skin." Scarlet's cheeks burned. "I saw him again two weeks later. At the library."
"Did you talk to him?"
"I tried not to." She laughed, hollow. "I was sitting in a corner, pretending to study, and he walked past and dropped a piece of paper on my table. It had his address on it. And underneath, he'd written: 'When you're ready.'"
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"How long did you wait?"
Scarlet closed her eyes. The memory rose up, vivid and visceral—the walk across campus, the cold air biting at her cheeks, the way her heart had hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
"Three days."
Priya let out a low whistle. "And James?"
"James was at a study group. He thought I was at the library." Scarlet opened her eyes. "I told him I had a paper due. I told him I needed to focus. And then I walked to Ollie's apartment and knocked on the door, and when he opened it, he didn't say a word. He just stepped aside to let me in."
"What happened next?"
"He locked the door." Scarlet's voice was barely a whisper. "And then he kissed me. And I let him. God help me, I let him."
The memory was seared into her—the taste of him, coffee and cigarettes and something sweeter underneath. The way his hands had cupped her face, gentle at first, then rougher as she'd pressed closer. The way he'd backed her against the wall and pulled her shirt over her head and looked at her like she was something sacred.
"Did you fuck him that night?"
"Yes." The word came out small. "He took me to his bed. And he undressed me so slowly I thought I'd die from wanting him. And then he—"
Scarlet stopped. Her mouth was dry. She took a sip of her mimosa, the champagne sour on her tongue.
"And then he what?"
"He made me come with his mouth before he even touched me with his cock. He said he wanted to taste me first. He said he wanted to know what I tasted like before he ruined me for anyone else." Scarlet's voice cracked. "And then he fucked me. Slow. Deep. Like he'd been waiting for me his whole life."
Priya was quiet for a moment. "And James?"
"James never knew." Scarlet's hands were trembling again. "I went back to Ollie three nights later. And the night after that. And the night after that. I told James I was studying. I told him I had papers, projects, meetings with professors. I lied so easily I started to believe it myself."
"How long did it last?"
"Eight months." Scarlet's throat burned. "Eight months of lying. Eight months of sneaking out at midnight and crawling back at dawn. Eight months of letting Ollie fuck me in every position he could imagine while James wrote me love poems about my eyes."
"Did you love James?"
"I thought I did."
"And Ollie?"
Scarlet didn't answer.
"Scar."
"I didn't know what love was back then. I was nineteen. I thought love was what James gave me—stable, predictable, safe. And Ollie was just... something else. Something I couldn't name."
Priya finished her mimosa. Set the glass down. "Keep going."
"I broke up with James at the end of freshman year. Not because of Ollie. Because James wanted to get married after graduation and I wasn't ready." She paused. "Ollie never asked me to leave him. He never asked me for anything. He just... waited. He was always waiting."
"For what?"
"For me to choose him." Scarlet's eyes stung. "And I never did."
The restaurant was emptying now. The brunch crowd had thinned, leaving behind a scattering of stragglers nursing their last mimosas. Scarlet's avocado toast sat untouched, the egg yolk congealing into a dull yellow smear.
"So James was the first," Priya said. "Who was the second?"
Scarlet's stomach turned. She pushed her plate away, the porcelain scraping against the marble.
"Marcus."
"Wait." Priya's brow furrowed. "Marcus? Your fiancé Marcus?"
"Not—no. Not that Marcus." Scarlet shook her head. "A different Marcus. I dated him sophomore year after James. He was a biochemistry major. Pre-med. Very serious."
"And Ollie?"
"I told myself I was done. I told myself I was going to be normal, date normal men, have a normal life." Scarlet's laugh was bitter. "I lasted six weeks."
"What happened?"
"I ran into Ollie at a coffee shop. Completely by accident. I was with Marcus. We were holding hands. And Ollie walked in, and the moment I saw him, I felt everything—every night, every touch, every time he'd made me come so hard I forgot my own name."
"Did you leave with him?"
"No." Scarlet closed her eyes. "I introduced them. I introduced Ollie to Marcus like he was just some guy I knew from class. And Ollie shook his hand and smiled and said it was nice to meet him, and then he looked at me—just for a second—and I saw everything in his eyes. The hurt.The longing. The patience."
"Patience?"
"He knew." Scarlet opened her eyes. "He knew I'd come back. He always knew."
"How long did you hold out?"
"Three days." The confession tasted like ash. "I told Marcus I had a doctor's appointment. I drove to Ollie's apartment and let myself in—he'd given me a key months before, and I'd never returned it—and I found him in the kitchen. Making coffee."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing." Scarlet's voice was barely audible. "He just looked at me. And I looked at him. And then I walked across the kitchen and kissed him, and his hands were in my hair, and my clothes were on the floor, and he bent me over the counter and fucked me from behind while the coffee burnt in the pot."
Priya's breath caught. "Scar."
"I came twice before he even finished." Scarlet's face burned. "And then I went home to Marcus and told him I loved him and let him make love to me in the dark like nothing had happened."
"Did you feel guilty?"
"Of course I felt guilty." Scarlet's hands clenched on the table. "I felt guilty every single time. But not guilty enough to stop."
"How long did it go on?"
"Five months. Until Marcus transferred schools." Scarlet swallowed. "He told me he loved me. He told me he wanted to marry me someday. And I stood there and nodded and smiled and let him believe I was the girl he thought I was."
"And Ollie?"
"Ollie was there when I got home. He'd already heard—Marcus told everyone he was leaving, it was campus news." Scarlet's eyes stung. "He asked me if I was okay. He asked me if I wanted to talk. And I told him I didn't want to talk. I told him I wanted him to fuck me until I couldn't think anymore."
"Did he?"
"Yes." Scarlet's voice broke. "He took me to his bed and he held me down and he fucked me until I screamed. And then he held me while I cried. He held me all night. He didn't say a word. He just held me."
Priya was quiet for a long time. The waiter appeared, cleared their plates, vanished. Scarlet's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
"How many others?" Priya asked finally.
Scarlet's mouth opened.Closed. Opened again.
"How many, Scar?"
"Five." The word came out strangled. "Five other boyfriends. And a few one-night stands. And a summer fling. And—"
"Jesus." Priya's voice was flat. "You've been cheating with Ollie for a decade."
"I know."
"You've been lying to every man you've ever been with."I know."
"During your engagement. Right now. With Marcus—the real Marcus, the one you're supposed to marry in June—you've been thinking about Ollie."
"I know." Scarlet's voice cracked. "I know, I know, I know."
Priya reached across the table. Her hand found Scarlet's, squeezed hard.
"Then what are you going to do?"
Scarlet stared at their joined hands. Two women in a restaurant that smelled like coffee and guilt. The sun was climbing higher, flooding the booth with gold, making everything look clean and pure and absolutely nothing like it was.
"I don't know," she whispered.
"You don't know."
"I love Marcus. I do. He's kind.He's good. He wants to build a life with me."
"And Ollie?"
"Ollie is..." Scarlet trailed off. She thought of his hands. His voice. The way he'd whispered filth into her ear while his fingers curled inside her. The way he'd left her hanging, aching, unfinished, because he knew—he always knew—that she'd come back for more.
"Ollie is the mistake I keep making," she said finally. "The one I can't stop making."
Priya's grip tightened. "That's not an answer."
"It's the best I have."
"No." Priya's voice was sharp. "It's not. Because you're not nineteen anymore, Scar. You're not twenty-two. You're twenty-eight years old, and you're engaged to a man who loves you, and you're still sneaking around like a college kid who can't keep her legs together."
Scarlet flinched.
"That was harsh."
"It was true." Priya released her hand. Leaned back. "So here's what I need you to do. You need to make a choice. And not the wishy-washy 'I'll deal with it later' choice you've been making for ten years. A real choice."
"And what if I can't?"
"Then you don't get to marry Marcus." Priya's eyes were hard. "Because he deserves better than a woman who's going to spend the rest of her life wishing she was in someone else's bed."
Scarlet's throat closed. She stared at the table, at the ring on her finger—the diamond Marcus had picked out, the diamond she'd said yes to, the diamond that was starting to feel like a shackle.
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
Priya sighed. She reached into her purse, pulled out her phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling an Uber."
"Why?"
"Because we're going to get drunk. Really drunk. And then you're going to make a decision." Priya looked up, eyes sharp. "And if you can't make it sober—if you can't tell the truth to yourself without a bottle of champagne in your hand—then I'm going to make it for you."
Scarlet's stomach dropped. "Priya—"
"Don't." Priya's voice was steel. "I love you, Scar. You're my best friend. But I've spent ten years watching you self-destruct, and I'm done. Tonight, you decide. Ollie or Marcus. A life with the man you lie to, or a life with the man you can't forget."
She stood. Dropped a stack of bills on the table. Held out her hand.
"Let's go."
Scarlet stared at the bills. At the ring on her finger. At the reflection in the window—a woman with tangled hair and tired eyes and a secret that had been eating her alive for a decade.
She thought of Ollie's fingers inside her.
She thought of Marcus's hand on her cheek.
She thought of the way Ollie had said: "Same time next storm, Scar?"
She took Priya's hand.
And she stood.