It Was Just Supposed to Be a Fun Summer

Meghan adjusted the rearview mirror of her SUV, tilting it just enough to catch what she’d been dodging for weeks.

Her own eyes.

Dark. Kohl-lined. Lash extensions laid by the gods. Fatigue she couldn't escape settled into her features. Resentment lingered, familiar as an old tune. She was tired of carrying it, tired of pretending it didn’t weigh anything.

Traffic on I-85 crept forward. Meghan couldn’t wait. Athens called her like peace does when you finally stop arguing with it.

Her suitcase lay quietly in the trunk. Not packed for escape, but for return—return to herself, her rhythm, the life that didn’t demand constant emotional translation.

Her phone lit up on the passenger seat. Ian. Missed call. No voicemail.

Of course.

Ian didn’t leave voicemails. He left absence. He left questions hanging like smoke, expecting her to inhale, to make sense of, to choke quietly.

Meghan flicked on her blinker, eased into the left lane, and let out a short laugh that didn’t reach her chest.

“Fun summer,” she said out loud.

That was what she’d called it back in June, after meeting him at a Midtown mixer she hadn’t wanted to attend. She’d gone for wine and surface conversation, the business cards she’d likely ignore. She stayed because Ian leaned against the bar like he belonged—no urgency, yet owed patience by the world.

He was forty-five, broad-shouldered, with a voice that slid under skin before you knew it. His beard was sharp and intentional—a shape-up that showed he cared about appearances. His smile wasn’t flashy, but practiced. Women noticed.

“Name’s Ian,” he’d said, extending a hand. His grip was warm, sure. Callused in a way that suggested work, not fragility. “You look like you ain’t tryna be here, for real.”

Meghan had smiled like a woman who knew herself. “I’m here for the business cards and the cheese cubes.”

He laughed, low and easy. “I respect that. That’s solid.”

“Meghan,” she told him. “Real estate.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Oh. You got money money.”

“I have work,” she corrected, amused but alert. “There’s a difference.”

Ian smirked. “Ok then, Big Money. I see you.”

Something inside Meghan recoiled.

She hated when men flattened her effort, her grind, her years of building into a nickname. Big Money sounded like luck, like flash, like she hadn’t earned every dollar.

Her smile tightened just a touch, but she kept it warm. “Only on paper,” she said lightly. “It’s really just consistency.” She tilted her head. “What about you—what do you do?”

“Barber,” he said. “Owner too. Two locations.”

Meghan tipped her head. “So you cut hair and cash checks.”

“I do more than that,” he replied, and something in his eyes dared her to ask what else.

She did.

Later, in the parking deck, streetlights throwing everything into unnecessary drama, he told her about prison the way men tell stories they’ve already made peace with. Three years. Fifteen years ago. “Moving weight,” he said, like the language could soften the reality.

“I learned to cut hair in there,” he added, hands sliding into his pockets. “Came out with a plan. Built something real. Ain’t looked back.”

A reformation story was supposed to inspire. And it did. But beneath her admiration, Meghan felt an old self-protective instinct surface—one honed by fifty years of living, divorce, and raising kids. Sometimes, she knew, 'I’ve changed' really meant 'I’ve learned how to repackage the same patterns.' Her inspiration mingled with caution.

Still, standing there under flickering lights, she felt something crack open. Just a little.

A crack that whispered, maybe—because Ian was fine as hell, and attraction has a way of making logic stutter.

And Meghan—smart, solvent, seasoned Meghan—had let that maybe override her usual judgment, turning a fleeting possibility into a promise she invested in, even as she noticed her guard lowering.

She’d broken rules she’d written after her divorce. After raising kids. After surviving things she never captioned.

No men with unfinished business.

No men who needed rescuing.

No chaos disguised as chemistry.

Ian had entered her life like a glossy party flyer. Bright. Loud. Full of potential and fine print.

She called it a fun summer.

It turned into labor.

It turned into court dates, childcare emergencies, and a man who studied her like a resource he hadn’t fully figured out how to extract.

The GPS announced an exit. Meghan ignored it.

She wasn’t rushing.

For once, she was letting the road set the pace.

From the beginning, the plan had been Puerto Rico.

Not a suggestion. Not a maybe. The plan.

Ian asked her one night while they lay tangled together, the ceiling fan chopping the air slowly and lazily. “What you wanna do for your birthday?”

“Puerto Rico,” Meghan said without hesitation. “Beach. Balcony. Sun. I want to wake up to water and mind my business.”

He said it with that easy confidence, words dressed in promise more than certainty.

He said it the way men say things when they want credit for intention.

After that, he kept the fantasy alive in fragments.

“You got your passport, right?”

Meghan rolled her eyes. “You don’t even need a passport for Puerto Rico. It’s literally the United States.”

“Aight, professor,” he said smoothly. “That’s why I like you—smart and fine.”

Meghan smiled, a subtle discomfort in her chest. She was a little turned off. Meghan considered herself a sapiosexual; she liked sharp minds, curiosity, and range. She didn’t want to think Ian wasn’t smart—maybe just not well-traveled. She let herself believe that.

Charm instead of confirmation. She let the charm stand in for proof.

Weeks passed. Nothing solidified. No dates. No flights. No hotel links. Every time she tried to ground the plans, Ian skimmed past the details like they were optional.

She felt the dread before she named it.

Two weeks before her birthday, he called late. “I don’t think I can do Puerto Rico.”

“Why?”

“Money moving funny right now,” he said. “But Florida, though? Florida nice as hell.”

Florida.

“Beaches near Tampa,” he added. “We could fly down and drive back.”

It sounded improvised.

In her head, she saw herself on a Puerto Rican balcony. Silk robe. Brown skin glowing. Backshots with an ocean breeze. No responsibilities but pleasure.

Out loud, she said, “Okay.”

She should’ve booked her own damn trip.

The day before they were supposed to leave, Meghan was unboxing swimsuits—the kind you pack for luxury—when Ian called.

“There was a mix-up with the parenting plan,” he said. “I got Kai for ten days.”

Her stomach dropped. “So the trip is canceled?”

“You been waiting for me to fumble,” he snapped. “Of course it ain’t canceled. Kai love Florida!”

Her heart sank.

Her Puerto Rican birthday baecation—with balconies, backshots, and nobody needing juice boxes—had been repurposed into a family trip.

Destin.

The condo on Miramar Beach was clean. Beige. Forgettable. The balcony faced the water, but not that water. No music. No rhythm. Just families and crying kids and coolers dragged across sand.

“See? This nice,” Ian said.

Meghan smiled. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

Nice was what you called things when you didn’t want to argue.

That night, while Ian handled bedtime, Meghan stood alone on the balcony. Somewhere across the beach, a couple laughed—exactly where they wanted to be.

Her birthday dinner came early, chosen for its kids’ menu. Her dress stayed folded. Her body went untouched.

The worst part wasn’t the trip.

It was how easily her wants had been edited out.

This isn’t what I signed up for, she thought, the realization settling heavy in her chest.

She swallowed the disappointment because that’s what she was good at, but even as she did, she felt something shift—a quiet determination waking up beneath the weight of resignation.

But resentment had started whispering.

And once it speaks, it never really shuts up.

Meghan went back to therapy the week after Destin. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus, and the soft hum of the air vent filled the pauses between her thoughts.

Not because she was falling apart. She was still closing deals, still functioning. But now, something inside her felt quietly disconnected—a dullness that unsettled her more than chaos ever could. Meghan didn’t trust this silence; she knew change was coming.

She told Dr. Abrams about the trip. The shift. How her birthday had turned into obligation.

Dr. Abrams didn’t interrupt. When Meghan finished, she leaned back and said, "Have you lost your damn mind?"

Meghan laughed before she could stop herself.

“I figured,” she said, a wry smile tugging at her mouth, like she’d already known the answer and just needed to hear it out loud.

“You’re fifty. You’ve built a life,” Dr. Abrams continued. “So tell me—when was the last time this felt reciprocal?”

Meghan opened her mouth. Nothing came.

“At the beginning,” she finally said. “When it was light.”

“And now?”

“I’m always adjusting. Making room for his life.”

Dr. Abrams nodded. “And where are you?”

“Somewhere in the background.”

That stung.

“You’re not a supporting character in your own life,” Dr. Abrams said. “This man isn’t evil. He’s unavailable. And instead of him rising to meet you, you’ve been lowering yourself.”

Meghan felt the sting behind her eyes.

“I didn’t want to seem selfish.”

“Wanting follow-through isn’t selfish,” Dr. Abrams said. “Wanting your birthday to be about you isn’t selfish. You’re not asking for too much. You’re asking the wrong person.”

Meghan wiped at her face, steadier now.

“What do you want?” Dr. Abrams asked.

“Peace,” Meghan said. “Ease. To feel chosen.”

Dr. Abrams nodded. “Does this give you that?”

Meghan closed her eyes.

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer,” Dr. Abrams said. “Clarity doesn’t always come with relief. But it always comes with truth.”

After therapy, Meghan didn’t announce anything.

She didn’t give speeches. Didn’t issue ultimatums. She just… couldn’t quite make herself leave him either.

So she changed.

She stopped overexplaining. Stopped rearranging her schedule to catch his mood. Stopped answering every call on the first ring like she was on payroll. She pulled back in small, uneven ways—less available, less eager, quieter.

It wasn’t intentional cruelty. It was avoidance. It was a woman trying to outgrow something without yet knowing how to put it down.

Ian felt it immediately.

One night, while Meghan was at his place, she took her phone into the bathroom with her—because she actually needed to use the bathroom.

She sat on the toilet, scrolling absently while her body did what bodies do, grateful for the rare moment of quiet. Just a few minutes to herself. No explaining. No managing. No performing.

Then came the knock.

Hard.

“You good in there?” Ian asked.

Meghan closed her eyes. “Yes.”

A beat passed.

“You been in there a minute,” he added.

Annoyance flared sharp and fast. “Ian,” she said, voice tight, “I’m using the bathroom.”

Silence. Then suspicion slid under the door.

“Why you got your phone in there?”

That did it.

Meghan flushed, stood, and yanked the door open, irritation pouring off her. “Because I’m a grown woman and I wanted some damn privacy. Is that a crime now?”

Ian’s eyes flicked to her phone. Then her face. “That’s how it start,” he said.

Her disbelief turned hot.

“How what starts?”

“You getting funny with your phone. Getting distant. Moving different.”

The air between them tightened.

“Are you seriously accusing me of cheating right now?” Meghan asked.

Ian shrugged, jaw set. “I’m just saying. Folks don’t just start moving funny for no reason. Ain’t nobody that busy unless it’s somebody else.”

Something in Meghan snapped clean in half.

“Can I shit in peace!” she screamed, the words tearing out of her chest before she could soften them.

The room went dead silent.

Her heart pounded. Her hands shook—not with fear, but fury. Because this wasn’t about a phone. It was about control. About monitoring. About a man who felt entitled to every private moment she had.

There it was.

The projection. The insecurity dressed up as instinct.

Meghan laughed, short and disbelieving. “So now I’m cheating because I answered an email?”

“I’m saying I don’t know what you doing,” he shot back. “You ain’t been the same,” he said. “I clocked it.”

“No,” Meghan said calmly. “I’ve been clearer.”

That seemed to piss him off more.

A few days later, the babysitting conversation blew it wide open.

Meghan was packing for a week-long work trip to Gainesville—client meetings, site visits, and early mornings. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, neat and intentional. This trip mattered.

Ian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “So, what time you sliding through tomorrow?”

She didn’t look up. “I’m not.”

He frowned. “What you mean you’re not?”

“I’m leaving early,” she said. “I told you I have to get ready. I fly out in the morning.”

Ian’s voice hardened. “I need you to keep Kai tomorrow.”

Meghan paused, then turned to face him. “Ian, I can’t. I’m working.”

“You always working,” he snapped. “Always got some meeting, some trip, some excuse.”

She took a breath. “I’m not your babysitter.”

The air shifted.

“So that’s what this is now?” he said. “You too good to help me?”

“Helping isn’t the issue,” Meghan replied. “Assuming is.”

He shook his head. “You knew I had my son,” he said. “You knew what you was signing up for.”

Meghan’s stomach clenched. “No,” she said slowly. “I knew you had a child. I did not sign up to be on call.”

Ian laughed without humor. “See? This that selfish shit I’m talking about.”

Selfish.

The word landed heavily.

Meghan felt something settle into place—not anger, not sadness. Understanding.

This was the role he’d been writing for her all along.

Free labor. Emotional cushioning. Availability without authority.

She zipped her suitcase with finality. “I’m not abandoning you,” she said evenly. “I’m honoring my responsibilities.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Funny how your responsibilities always come first now.”

Meghan met his gaze. “They always have. I just stopped pretending otherwise.”

He turned away, muttering under his breath.

And in that moment, Meghan knew.

This wasn’t a rough patch.

This was the truth finally speaking out loud.

Gainesville was productive.

That was the word Meghan used when people asked.

Productive meant sharp meetings, decisive clients, and clean numbers. Long days. Quiet hotel nights where no one needed anything from her. She slept deeply. Her nervous system finally unclenched.

Ian texted more than usual while she was gone.

You good?

You ain’t call me.

You still mad?

She answered when she felt like it—not to punish him or prove a point, but because she no longer felt obligated to perform reassurance on demand.

By the time she got back, the decision had already been made.

They sat across from each other at his kitchen table. Kai was with his mother. The house held that tight, waiting quietly, which made Meghan lift her shoulders before consciously relaxing them.

“I don’t see this going any further,” she said calmly.

Ian blinked. “Fuck you talkin’ ’bout, Meghan?”

“I mean,” she continued, steady, “this relationship isn’t working for me.”

For a second, he looked stunned. Then his face hardened.

“So after everything I done did for you,” he said, leaning back. “That’s how you gonna do me?”

Here it comes, Meghan thought.

“I’ve dined and wined you,” he continued, voice rising. “Ain’t never let you pay for nothin’. Sent you money just because. You ain’t never had to open your purse when you with me.”

He laughed bitterly. “You acting like I ain’t showed up.”

Meghan didn’t flinch.

She folded her hands on the table. “Ian, let’s be very clear.”

He scoffed. “Oh, we clear now?”

“You spent money,” she said evenly. “You did not show up.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No,” Meghan replied. “What’s bullshit is thinking access to your wallet equals emotional availability.”

Ian shook his head. “You sound ungrateful as hell.”

She tilted her head. “And you sound transactional.”

He opened his mouth, but she kept going.

“You didn’t take me on a birthday trip,” she said. “You took me to Destin with your child after canceling the trip you promised, then framed it like a favor.”

“That still costs money.”

“And it cost me my joy,” she said. “Which you never seem to factor in.”

Ian stood, pacing. “You ain’t never had to worry about nothin’ with me.”

“I worried constantly,” Meghan said. “About your moods. Your finances. Your lack of planning. Your accusations. Shrinking myself so you wouldn’t feel threatened.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” she replied, standing too, “is you keeping score like this was a tab instead of a relationship I tried to build.”

He stopped pacing. “You ain’t never paid for nothing.”

Meghan laughed once. Cold.

“I paid with my time. My energy. My labor. My flexibility. My silence. My birthday. My peace.”

She stepped closer, her voice low.

“You sent money to feel like the man, not because I needed it or asked. And every dollar came with expectations you never said out loud but enforced anyway.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t get to buy authority over me,” she cut in. “And you don’t get to rewrite this breakup like I’m abandoning some great love story.”

Silence fell between them.

“I’m not mad,” Meghan said, calmer now. “I’m clear. And clarity doesn’t require agreement.”

Ian looked at her like he didn’t recognize her, like the glossy party flyer version of himself had finally peeled away and left nothing worth advertising.

“After everything,” he muttered.

Meghan nodded. “Yes. After everything.”

She picked up her purse.

“For what it’s worth,” she said at the door, “I hope you heal. But you won’t do it on my back.”

She left without slamming the door.

Outside, the air felt lighter.

Meghan inhaled deeply.

She had chosen herself.

And this time, she wasn’t looking back.