All Chapters of My Bestfriend's Boy: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

ToriDerek wanted a small party. Just friends, no family drama, no pressure.We held it at his apartment—our apartment now—with fairy lights strung across the ceiling and takeout from our favorite Thai place. The guest list was short: Ethan, Mia, Marcus, Jake, and a few of Derek’s comedy friends. I hadn’t seen Ethan in months. I hadn’t seen Mia in years.When they walked in together, my heart clenched.They looked different. Calmer. Like they’d finally stopped running.“Tori.” Ethan hugged me first, brief but warm. “You look happy.”“I am happy.”Mia stood behind him, her hands clasped in front of her. “Hi, Tori.”“Hi, Mia.”We looked at each other—two women who had once been enemies, now standing in the same room, both in love with men who had once been part of a different story.“I’m glad you came,” I said.“Me too.”The first hour was tense. Marcus and Jake talked sports in the corner. Derek’s comedy friends told stories about open mics that bombed. Ethan and Mia sat close together

AvaThe wedding was small. That was my only request. No big church, no hundreds of guests, no elaborate floral arrangements. Just the people who mattered, standing with us as we promised forever.We held it in Seattle, at a garden venue tucked away from the rain. The sky was gray—of course it was—but the flowers were bright, and the string quartet played something soft, and Oliver looked at me like I was the only person in the world. My mother cried before I even walked down the aisle.“You look beautiful,” she whispered, adjusting my veil.“Thanks, Mom.”“He’s a good man, Ava. I’m so proud of you.”I hugged her, careful not to smudge my makeup. Then the music changed, and it was time.Priya walked ahead of me, scattering petals. Chloe followed, holding a small bouquet. Then the music swelled, and I stepped into the aisle. Oliver stood at the altar, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes bright. He wasn’t crying—he was too steady for that—but his smile was so wide it almost hurt

MiaSix months after Ethan started staying with me, we found our rhythm. He kept his apartment in LA—a safety net, he called it—but he was in Las Vegas more often than not. His art had gained enough traction that he could work remotely, shipping pieces to galleries, taking commissions online. My shifts at The Oasis were steady, predictable, the kind of work that filled my days with purpose. We weren't rushing. We weren't planning a wedding or looking at houses. We were just… being. And for the first time, that felt like enough.Ethan woke earlier than I did. He'd make coffee—black for him, with cream for me—and sit on the balcony, sketching. By the time I stumbled out of bed, he'd have filled two or three pages with whatever he'd seen: the mountains, the desert sky, the old woman who walked her dog at dawn.“You're obsessed,” I said one morning, wrapping my arms around him from behind.“I'm inspired.”“Same thing.”He turned and kissed me—coffee-flavored, sleepy, familiar. I loved tha

AvaA year after the housewarming, I sat alone in my Seattle study. The rain tapped against the window, soft and familiar. My laptop was open to a blank page—the first page of a new novel, one I hadn't started yet. Outside, the city hummed its quiet hum. Inside, the only sounds were the click of the radiator and the distant meow of Fitzgerald, who was probably knocking something off the kitchen counter. Oliver was at work. Priya was traveling. For the first time in months, I was completely alone. And I was thinking about forgiveness.I'd been asked about forgiveness a lot. At book signings, interviews, panels. Readers wanted to know how Elena—my fictional stand‑in—had found the strength to forgive. They wanted to know if I had forgiven the people who hurt me. I always gave honest answers. But I'd never found the perfect words. Until now. I opened a new document and started typing.“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”I stared at the sentence.

AvaSeattle was raining. That wasn’t news. Seattle was always raining. But today, the rain felt different—heavier, like the sky was holding its breath. I stood at the window of our apartment, a cold cup of tea in my hands, watching the drops streak down the glass. Behind me, my laptop sat open to a blank page.The same blank page that had been staring at me for three weeks.“You’re brooding,” Oliver said, coming up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his chin on my shoulder.“I’m thinking.”“Same thing, with you.”I leaned back into him. “I can’t write.”“You’ve said that before. You always figure it out.”“This time is different.”He turned me around to face him. “How?”I looked at his face—the kind eyes, the steady smile, the small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood bike accident. This man had never once made me feel small. He had never once made me feel like my struggles were a burden.“I don’t know what to say anymore,” I admitted. “The words feel f