The small arrow of her own jealousy was there as she heard him talk about his fiance. A good sort ; what precisely did that mean? Had he kissed her yet, brought her close and placed feather-light kisses at the nape of her neck until she felt like the luckiest witch alive? It was too easy to imagine his fiance ; taller, curvier and blonde. The sort of witch that men fought over ; the sort she could never be.
As his hand left hers, Rose kept her head down ; unwilling to let him see the flash of hurt the simple gesture had caused. There was a stinging at the back of her throat as she listened to his words ; in her own childish way she'd had feelings for him and hearing him trash those felt like a twist in the gut. He had been her first boyfriend and her feelings for him had been so innocent and painfully sweet...
And apparently unreturned.
"Stupid, yeah," she echoed as she picked up the napkin the waitress had left and began shredding it. As the white pieces of paper fell onto the faded table top she seemed oblivious of the tear that slid down her face. How could she stop the hurt or more importantly see that this was for the best?
This had been a bad idea: the worst she'd ever had.