Chapter 2: Fireworks and Betrayal

On New Year’s Eve, I’d been selling two huge bundles of helium balloons. Then I saw Tyler Grant and my best friend, Brooke Harper, in the crowd, kissing right as the ball dropped.

That memory hit like a sucker punch. The air was sharp and cold, countdown clock flashing. My hands were numb from clutching the balloon strings. And then—there they were, Tyler and Brooke, making out under the fireworks.

I stood there, frozen, feeling every ounce of strength drain away. The balloons slipped from my fingers, floating up to join the rest, drifting into the night.

It was like watching my whole life float away. The balloons bobbed higher, catching city lights, and I just stood there. Hollow. Like those strings were the only thing holding me together.

People cheered, hugged, confetti flying. My head spun, everything tilting sideways.

The noise turned into a blur—cheers and laughter fading into a dull roar. It felt like I was underwater, watching it all from a distance.

A new year, a fresh start—and I lost my boyfriend, my best friend, and a hundred bucks’ worth of balloons. Talk about a cosmic joke.

I tried to laugh at the irony, but it stuck in my throat. A hundred bucks, gone. But honestly, it was everything else I’d lost that night that hurt worse.

The balloons vanished, but they clung together, refusing to split apart, floating higher and higher.

Even as they drifted away, those balloons tangled up—a bright knot against the black sky. I wanted it to mean something. But I knew better.

I rushed over, grabbed Tyler, yanked him away, and slapped him. Brooke jumped in, “Maya, you’ve got it all wrong, it’s not what you think!”

The slap echoed—my hand stung. Brooke’s face twisted in shock, but she tried to play it off, voice shaking. "It’s not what you think, Maya!"

I slapped her twice. "Is someone else’s boyfriend really that irresistible?"

My voice didn’t even sound like mine—sharp, brittle, not me. Brooke stumbled back, tears in her eyes. The crowd turned, eyes wide. Whispers started up immediately.

Brooke just stared, stunned, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Not a single word.

She looked at me, speechless. For a split second, I almost pitied her. Almost.

Then Tyler shoved me hard. I hit the ground. “Maya, what’s wrong with you? Look at yourself, you’re acting nuts.”

He glared down, voice icy. I landed hard, palms scraping on the sidewalk. People stepped back, but nobody moved to help. Just watched.

He put his arm around Brooke. “Brooke and I are innocent. Unlike you—so trashy.”

His words stung way worse than the fall. Brooke pressed into his side, eyes darting everywhere but at me. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out.

He left with Brooke, tossing over his shoulder, “Don’t bother with her, she’s always stirring up trouble.”

They melted into the crowd, leaving me on the concrete. My chest ached—like someone had kicked it.

People kept moving around me, like I was invisible. I just sat there, trembling, unable to get up for ages.

I stayed put, knees scraped, hands shaking. The world kept moving—strangers stepping over me, fireworks still popping in the distance. I couldn’t make myself stand.

When did they start hooking up? Was it when I was working double shifts to save for a new appliance? Or when I was hauling drywall and paint for the remodel? Even on New Year’s, I was out selling balloons to make extra cash for us.

I replayed every moment—late nights at the flea market, scrubbing paint off my hands, Tyler texting that he was working late. Had it all been a lie? Seriously?

How could Tyler do this to me? How could Brooke?

I’d trusted them both. That betrayal burned—hot, deep, ugly. I wanted answers, but I knew I’d never get any that made sense.

Tyler and I were both kids from busted-up homes, nobody really wanted us. We worked our butts off, pinched every penny, bought a secondhand starter home.

Two lost souls, patching together a family from scraps. We counted change for groceries, skipped date nights, and dreamed of a place we could finally call ours.

We saved for the down payment together. I felt bad for how hard Tyler worked, so I quit my job, managed the reno during the day, and ran a flea market booth at night.

I thought I was doing the right thing—taking pressure off him, making our dream possible. I juggled schedules, hustled every side gig I could find. Sleep? Who had time for that?

Every day I haggled with contractors, ran all over town buying materials, lights, appliances. Even the furniture, I hunted down at the outlet and bargained for.

Craigslist deals, Home Depot clearance aisles—I learned the difference between eggshell and satin paint. I figured out which contractors would try to scam you, which ones would bring you coffee.

It took months to finish it all. Months of sweat, bruises, and late-night takeout.

I kept a notebook with every receipt, every paint swatch. I watched the place change, piece by piece, until it almost felt like a home.

The day it was done, I sat on the new couch and just bawled. Happy tears, for once.

I remember sunlight pouring through the windows, me on the couch, letting myself hope. For the first time in forever, I actually thought things might work out.

We’d drifted so long, always getting pushed out of neighborhoods. I was sick of bouncing from one dumpy rental to another.

We were always packing, always searching. I dreamed of painting the walls, planting flowers out front, finally belonging somewhere.

To save cash, I grew a jungle of pothos, hoping they’d clear out the paint fumes so we could move in sooner.

The apartment turned into a mini-rainforest, green vines everywhere. It smelled like dirt and hope. Every morning, I’d water them and whisper promises about the future.

To save money, I did all the dirty work—took out trash, scrubbed floors on my knees till they shone.

My hands were raw, knees bruised, but I didn’t care. Every scuff I scrubbed away felt like I was scrubbing away the past. I blasted my playlist and sang along, off-key and proud.

I was full of hope—not even tired. This was my home. Ours. Finally.

I’d never had anything that felt so real. Our names on the mailbox, our shoes by the door. I thought it would last. I thought it was forever.

I picked out every single thing—dishes, throw pillows, little lamps—counting down the days till we could move in for good.

Every mug, every pillow, every lamp—chosen with hope. I pictured us in the kitchen, movie nights on the couch. I wanted to believe in happy endings, just this once.