"Ex-boyfriend," she corrects firmly, and we share our first genuine smile.
I hop up to refill our coffees, and I find myself telling Lena about Adam's excuses for missing my family's Christmas, about the way he'd criticize my townhouse, and about the subtle digs at my intelligence.
She nods along, offering her own stories—Brad "borrowing" her credit card, Brad telling her friends she was too busy to hang out while she was working extra shifts to cover their expenses, and Brad criticizing her clothes while refusing to carry laundry down to the building's basement.
With each revelation, my embarrassment fades, and my anger grows—not the hot, blinding rage I felt when I saw them on the kiss cam, but something cooler and more focused.
"You know what's almost funny?" Lena sets down her fork, plate nearly empty. "I kept thinking if I just tried harder. If I had been more supportive, he'd have finally committed. Complete his dissertation, get a job, be a partner instead of a project."
"I get that." I lean back, suddenly aware I've eaten every grain in my bowl. "I thought if I gave Adam enough space, enough time, he'd eventually feel secure enough to let me in. To be part of my world."
"And then..." she begins.
"They became part of each other's worlds," I finish.
Our eyes meet, and there's a moment of perfect understanding between us—two people who've been played for fools finding unexpected solidarity across a sticky cafeteria table.
Lena wraps her hands around her coffee mug again, but it doesn't appear she's seeking warmth this time. She looks composed. "I spent this morning throwing up from the shock. Now I'm just... angry."
"Good." I nod decisively. "Angry is better than humiliated."
"Is it, though?" Her eyebrow lifts. "I mean…the whole city's watching?"
I consider this as I study the woman across from me—her direct gaze and the stubborn set of her jaw. Something about her reminds me of my mother, not in looks but in backbone. "Maybe we can turn this around somehow."
"How?" she asks, curiosity replacing some of the hurt in her expression
I lean forward, thoughts brewing. "Like I said, what if we get some revenge? Nothing illegal, but something... satisfying."
Her eyes narrow, but there's a spark there. "What kind of revenge?"
"I don't know yet, but we deserve to feel better than this." I tap my fingers on the table. "Got any ideas?"
"Actually..." A small, dangerous smile plays on her lips. "I've had a few thoughts."
"Let's hear them."
"Well, Brad's teaching a summer seminar on moral philosophy." She twists her napkin between her fingers. "Wouldn't it be poetic for someone to interrupt his lecture on ethics with a reminder of his moral failures?"
I let out a surprised laugh. "What did you have in mind? Skywriting? Billboard outside his classroom?"
"I was thinking more... musical." Her smile widens. "My college roommate's brother has a barbershop quartet. They do singing telegrams."
The image clicks instantly, and I'm grinning despite myself. "A quartet bursting into his classroom to sing about what a cheating mooch he is?"
"They could sing 'No Scrubs' by TLC."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "That's perfect. Imagine it in four-part harmony or whatever?”
“I bet his class would join in, sing with them,” she finishes, and we're laughing now.
"What about Adam?" she asks when we've calmed down. "What's your revenge fantasy?"
I consider this, rolling a few possibilities around in my mind. “I’d love to let Gordie–that’s my dog–piss in all Adam’s designer shoes. Oh, or switch all his pants out for pants one size smaller.”
Lena grins. “I could give you toothpaste that dyes his teeth blue.”
“Yes!” I pump my fist. “I love that one.”
