THE LAST STRAW

OUR SWEET CURSE

Chapter 1: The Last Straw

The rain had a particular way of mocking Edwin Carter.

It wasn't the gentle, poetic kind of rain that romantic movies loved to feature during dramatic reconciliation scenes. No, this was the angry, spiteful kind—the type that came down in sheets so thick you could barely see three feet ahead, the type that somehow found its way into your shoes no matter how carefully you stepped, the type that seemed specifically engineered by the universe to ruin what was supposed to be the most important night of his life.

Edwin stood outside La Maison Belle, the city's most exclusive French restaurant, clutching a velvet box in his pocket like a lifeline. His reservation had been made three months in advance. His suit—a charcoal gray Armani that had cost him two months' salary—was now plastered to his body like a second skin. His carefully styled hair had transformed into what could only be described as a drowned rat's aesthetic.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the woman inside the restaurant. The woman he had spent two years loving, two years planning a future with, two years believing was *the one*.

Victoria McCall.

Beautiful, sophisticated, ambitious Victoria, with her razor-sharp wit and her laugh that sounded like wind chimes. Victoria, who had held his hand through his father's health scare and his promotion anxiety. Victoria, who had whispered *"I love you"* against his lips just last week.

Victoria, who was currently sitting at *their* table—the corner booth by the window, the one he had specifically requested—with another man's tongue down her throat.

Edwin blinked.

Perhaps the rain was distorting his vision. Perhaps this was some sort of stress-induced hallucination. He had been working long hours lately, after all. Maybe his brain had finally decided to stage a revolt.

He wiped his eyes and looked again.

Nope. Still there. Still kissing. Still very much not a hallucination.

The man was tall, blond, and possessed the kind of chiseled jawline that belonged on magazine covers. He wore a suit that probably cost more than Edwin's car. His hand was resting possessively on Victoria's waist—the same waist Edwin had held while slow-dancing in their apartment just three nights ago.

Something inside Edwin cracked.

It wasn't a dramatic shattering, not yet. It was more like the first fracture in ice before a lake gives way—a small, quiet *snap* that promised greater destruction to come.

His feet moved before his brain could catch up. The restaurant's glass door swung open, and suddenly he was inside, dripping a small ocean onto the pristine marble floor, drawing the horrified gazes of every patron in the establishment.

Victoria looked up.

For a split second—one tiny, infinitesimal moment—Edwin saw something flicker across her face. Guilt? Fear? Surprise? He couldn't tell. It vanished too quickly, replaced by an expression he had never seen her wear before: cold, calculating annoyance.

"Edwin." She said his name like it was an inconvenience. Like *he* was the intruder here. "What are you doing?"

The blond man had the audacity to look amused. He leaned back in his chair, one arm still draped over Victoria's shoulders, and regarded Edwin with the kind of lazy interest one might show a particularly entertaining street performer.

"This is him?" the man asked, his voice carrying a hint of a European accent. French, maybe. Or Swiss. Something expensive-sounding. "The boyfriend?"

"Ex," Victoria corrected smoothly. "Or at least, he will be after tonight."

Edwin felt the second crack spread through his chest.

"Ex?" His voice came out rougher than intended, scraping against his throat like sandpaper. "Victoria, what—I don't understand. We were supposed to have dinner. I made reservations. I—"

He stopped himself before he could mention the ring. The ring that suddenly felt like a lead weight in his pocket, dragging him down into the expensive marble floor.

Victoria sighed—actually *sighed*—as if his confusion was somehow exhausting to her.

"Edwin, darling, let's not make a scene." She gestured vaguely at the watching diners, some of whom had completely abandoned any pretense of minding their own business. An elderly woman at the next table was openly recording on her phone. "You're embarrassing yourself."

"*I'm* embarrassing myself?" The laugh that escaped him was bitter, foreign. "You're the one who's—who's—"

"Moving on?" Victoria supplied helpfully. "Growing? Choosing someone who can actually match my ambitions?"

She said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that Edwin almost missed the cruelty buried in her words. Almost.

The blond man—Edwin refused to think of him as anything more specific—chuckled. "Victoria, mon cœur, perhaps we should take this somewhere more private?"

"No need." Victoria rose from her seat, smoothing down her designer dress—the red one Edwin had bought her for their anniversary. "I was planning to end things tonight anyway. Edwin just saved me a phone call."

The third crack. The fourth. The fifth.

"Two years," Edwin heard himself say. "We've been together for two years, Victoria. You said you loved me. You said—you talked about our future. Kids. A house. You said—"

"People say a lot of things." Victoria collected her clutch purse with perfectly manicured fingers. "Surely you're old enough to know that words don't always mean what you want them to mean."

She walked past him without another glance, the blond man following with a patronizing pat on Edwin's shoulder that made him want to commit acts of violence.

"Better luck next time, friend," the man said, and then they were gone, disappearing into a sleek black car that had materialized at the curb like some sort of villain's chariot.

Edwin stood in the middle of La Maison Belle, dripping, broken, and very much the center of attention.

The elderly woman was still recording.

A waiter approached cautiously, the way one might approach a wounded animal. "Sir? Sir, are you alright? Can I get you... a towel? Some water? A taxi?"

Edwin reached into his pocket.

His fingers closed around the velvet box.

Slowly, mechanically, he pulled it out and opened it. The diamond caught the restaurant's chandelier light and sparkled mockingly—two carats of wasted hope, of naive dreams, of love that had apparently only ever existed in his imagination.

"Sir?" The waiter's voice had taken on a note of genuine concern. "Sir, I really think you should sit down—"

Edwin closed the box with a snap.

"I'm fine," he said, though they both knew it was a lie. "I'm absolutely fine."

He turned and walked out of the restaurant, leaving a trail of water and dignity in his wake.

The apartment was dark when Edwin finally made it home.

He didn't bother turning on the lights. He knew every inch of this space—had memorized it over the year he'd lived here, first alone, then with Victoria's presence slowly creeping in. Her toothbrush in the bathroom. Her clothes in his closet. Her perfume lingering in the air like a ghost that refused to leave.

Now, standing in the darkness, he could see traces of her everywhere. The throw pillows she had insisted on buying. The abstract painting above the couch that he had never understood but pretended to love because it made her happy. The half-empty bottle of her favorite wine in the kitchen.

Two years.

Two *years* of his life, given to someone who had apparently been waiting for a better option to come along.

Edwin made his way to the couch and sat down heavily, still in his soaked suit, still clutching the ring box like it meant something. Water pooled beneath him, ruining the upholstery. He couldn't bring himself to care.

The silence pressed in around him, thick and suffocating.

This wasn't his first heartbreak. That was perhaps the worst part. He had been here before—not in this exact apartment, not with this exact ring, but in this emotional wasteland where love had led him and then abandoned him without a map.

There had been Sarah, his college sweetheart, who had decided that "finding herself" required finding herself in bed with his roommate.

There had been Michelle, the marketing executive he'd dated for eight months, who had ghosted him so completely that he sometimes wondered if she had been a figment of his imagination.

There had been Jennifer, the "perfect match" from the dating app, who had seemed wonderful until she revealed that she was still married and had no intention of changing that status.

And now Victoria.

Beautiful, treacherous Victoria, who had taken his heart and used it as a stepping stone to something better.

Edwin's phone buzzed.

He pulled it out, half-expecting a message from Victoria—an apology, an explanation, something to make this make sense. Instead, he found a notification from his social media.

*Victoria McCall has updated her relationship status.*

With morbid curiosity, he clicked on it.

*Victoria McCall is in a relationship with Laurent Dubois.*

Laurent Dubois. So the blond man had a name. A quick scroll revealed that Laurent was the CEO of a French tech startup valued at approximately three hundred million dollars. His profile picture showed him standing in front of a yacht. An actual yacht.

Of course.

Of *course* Victoria had traded up. That was what she did, wasn't it? Climbed ladders, social and otherwise. Edwin had just been a rung on her way to somewhere better.

More notifications flooded in. Friends reacting with shocked emojis. Acquaintances sending carefully worded messages of false sympathy. His mother calling, then calling again, then sending a text that read: *"Edwin James Carter, I just saw Facebook. Call me immediately."*

He turned off his phone.

The silence returned, somehow heavier than before.

Edwin sat in the darkness for a long time, letting the weight of his failure settle over him like a wet blanket. Three relationships. Three betrayals. Three times he had given his heart to someone, only to have it handed back in pieces.

There was a pattern here, and he was tired of being too stupid to see it.

Love, he decided, was a scam.

A beautiful, seductive scam designed to make fools of people who should know better. It promised happiness and delivered misery. It whispered sweet nothings and screamed bitter everythings. It was a drug, and he was done being an addict.

No more.

No more first dates filled with nervous hope. No more late-night phone calls that made his heart race. No more planning futures with people who had no intention of showing up for them.

He was done.

*Done.*

The decision settled into his bones with a finality that felt almost peaceful. It was the peace of surrender, of giving up a fight he had never been equipped to win.

But giving up required going somewhere. Staying here, in this apartment full of memories, in this city full of opportunities for his heart to be stupid again—that wasn't surrender. That was torture.

He needed to leave. To go somewhere so far removed from romance that the very concept couldn't find him.

His phone buzzed again.

He had turned it off. He was sure he had turned it off.

And yet, there it was, lighting up with a name that made something complicated twist in his chest.

*Grandma.*

Despite everything, Edwin answered.

"Edwin? Edwin, honey, is that you?"

His grandmother's voice crackled through the speaker, warm and worried in equal measure. Martha Carter had never quite mastered the art of the smartphone—she still held it six inches from her ear and spoke at a volume appropriate for shouting across a football field—but the love in her voice came through crystal clear.

"Yeah, Grandma." Edwin's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, it's me."

"Your mother called. She's worried sick. Something about Facebook and a French man and—oh, honey, are you alright?"

The question broke something in him.

Maybe it was the genuine concern, so different from Victoria's cold dismissal. Maybe it was the reminder that somewhere in the world, people actually cared whether he was okay. Or maybe he was just exhausted, wrung out, completely emptied of any ability to pretend.

Whatever the reason, Edwin found himself telling her everything.

The restaurant. The rain. The kiss that wasn't meant for him. The ring still heavy in his pocket. The pattern of failures that made up his romantic history. The decision he had just made, still fresh and raw.

His grandmother listened without interruption—a minor miracle, given her usual conversational style—and when he finally ran out of words, she was quiet for a long moment.

"Edwin," she said finally, her voice gentler than he had ever heard it, "come home."

Home.

He hadn't thought of the countryside house as home in years. It was where he had spent his summers as a child, chasing fireflies and learning to fish and getting spectacularly sunburned because he refused to wear sunscreen. It was where his grandparents had retired to when they decided that city life wasn't for them. It was a two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and a vegetable garden and absolutely zero cell phone reception.

It was, he realized, exactly what he needed.

"Come home," Grandma repeated. "Your grandfather and I have plenty of space. You can stay as long as you like. Help with the garden. Learn to make my famous apple pie. Forget about all those city girls who don't know a good thing when they see it."

"Grandma—"

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Edwin James. You've been running yourself ragged in that city, chasing after people who don't deserve you. It's time to stop. Come home. Rest. Heal."

She said it with such conviction that Edwin almost believed healing was possible.

"I'll think about it," he said.

"You'll do more than think," Grandma replied firmly. "I'll have your room ready by Friday. Your grandfather's already excited—he's been wanting someone to play chess with."

"Grandma, I haven't agreed—"

"Friday, Edwin. We'll have pot roast."

She hung up before he could protest further.

Edwin stared at his phone, a small, unwilling smile tugging at his lips. Martha Carter had never been one to take no for an answer. His grandfather liked to joke that she had proposed to *him* because she got tired of waiting for him to work up the courage.

Friday.

Could he really do it? Pack up his life and run away to the countryside like some character in a bad rom-com?

*Rom-com*, he thought bitterly. There would be no romance in his future. He had made that decision, and he intended to keep it. What he needed was a com—comedy, companionship, something to distract him from the gaping hole in his chest.

His grandparents could provide that. The countryside could provide that. A life without dating apps and fancy restaurants and women who were always looking for someone better—that sounded like paradise.

Edwin stood up.

He was still soaking wet, still wearing his ruined Armani suit, still holding a ring box that represented thousands of dollars and countless shattered dreams. But for the first time since walking into that restaurant, he felt something other than pain.

He felt *decided*.

The apartment could be sublet. His job—corporate consulting, soul-crushingly boring but well-paying—offered remote work options. His lease was up for renewal next month anyway. The logistics weren't impossible.

The only thing holding him here was inertia. And the faint, foolish hope that maybe Victoria would change her mind, would realize she had made a mistake, would come running back to him with apologies and explanations.

He looked at the ring box.

Then he walked to the window, opened it, and threw the box into the night.

It arced through the rain, glinting once under a streetlamp, and then disappeared into the darkness below. Probably landed in a puddle. Probably would be found by some homeless person who would pawn it for cash. Probably a massive waste of money.

Edwin didn't care.

He closed the window, stripped off his wet clothes, and got into the shower. The hot water pounded against his back, washing away the remnants of the worst night of his life.

When he emerged, he felt different. Emptier, but also lighter. Like he had finally stopped carrying a weight he hadn't even known was there.

He dried off, put on sweats and an old college t-shirt, and sat down at his laptop.

*How to sublet an apartment in 30 days.*

*Remote work policy checklist.*

*Bus tickets to Willowbrook County.*

The search results populated his screen, each one a step toward a new life. A quieter life. A life where his heart would be safely locked away, protected from anyone who might try to break it again.

He booked the bus ticket for Friday.

Then he opened a new document and began to type.

*RULES FOR EDWIN CARTER'S NEW LIFE:*

*1. No dating. Ever. Under any circumstances. Not even if the woman seems perfect. ESPECIALLY if the woman seems perfect.*

*2. No romantic entanglements of any kind. This includes "casual" relationships, "friends with benefits," and "just seeing where things go."*

*3. No watching romantic movies, reading romantic books, or listening to love songs. These are gateway drugs to stupidity.*

*4. No believing in "the one," "soulmates," "fate," or any other romantic nonsense designed to make people ignore red flags.*

*5. No exceptions to rules 1-4.*

*6. Seriously, NO EXCEPTIONS.*

He saved the document and closed his laptop.

Outside, the rain was finally beginning to ease. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—a last complaint from the storm that had ruined his evening.

Edwin lay down on his couch, too tired to make it to the bedroom, and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would start packing.

Friday, he would leave.

And love—that beautiful, terrible, treacherous thing—would never hurt him again.

He fell asleep with that certainty wrapped around him like a shield, completely unaware that fate had very different plans.

Willowbrook County was exactly as Edwin remembered it: small, green, and approximately fifty years behind the rest of civilization.

The bus dropped him off at what generously could be called a "station"—really just a covered bench outside the general store—at three in the afternoon on a Friday so sunny it felt like a personal insult. After the dreary gray of the city, all this cheerful brightness seemed almost aggressive.

His grandfather was waiting in the old pickup truck, the same one he'd been driving since Edwin was a child. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

"There he is!" Harold Carter hopped out of the driver's seat with an energy that belied his seventy-three years. He was a tall man, still built like the farmer he'd been all his life, with a shock of white hair and a smile that crinkled his entire face. "The prodigal grandson returns!"

"Hey, Grandpa." Edwin accepted the crushing hug with a wince. His grandfather had never learned the concept of "gentle." "Thanks for picking me up."

"What, and make you walk five miles with all those bags? Your grandmother would have my hide." Harold grabbed the largest suitcase before Edwin could protest. "Besides, I've been looking forward to this. Do you know how long it's been since I've had someone to argue with about politics?"

"Grandma doesn't argue with you?"

"Your grandmother *agrees* with me. Very boring. I need opposition to keep my mind sharp."

Edwin found himself smiling despite everything. This was why he had come—this easy warmth, this unconditional welcome.

They loaded his luggage into the truck bed and climbed inside. The cab smelled like hay and engine grease and the peppermint candies his grandfather always kept in his pocket. Familiar. Safe.

"So," Harold said as he pulled onto the main road—a winding two-lane that cut through fields of corn and wheat—"your grandmother told me what happened."

Edwin's smile faded. "Grandma told you?"

"She tells me everything. Fifty-two years of marriage, no secrets." Harold glanced at him sideways. "You okay, son?"

The question was simple, direct. No prying, no judgment. Just genuine concern.

"I will be," Edwin said. "That's why I'm here."

Harold nodded slowly. "Good. That's good. You know, I had my heart broken once. Before your grandmother, there was a girl named Rosie who decided she preferred the fellow who owned the next farm over. Prettier cows, apparently."

"How did you get over it?"

"Time. Work. And then Martha showed up and Rosie became a distant memory." Harold chuckled. "Life has a way of working out, Edwin. Even when it feels like everything's falling apart."

Edwin didn't respond. He appreciated the sentiment, but he wasn't interested in "life working out" if that meant opening himself up to another Rosie. Or Sarah. Or Michelle. Or Jennifer. Or Victoria.

His list of rules was still fresh in his mind. No exceptions.

They drove in comfortable silence for a while, the countryside rolling past in waves of green and gold. Edwin had forgotten how beautiful it was here—how vast the sky looked without buildings crowding it, how clean the air smelled without exhaust and garbage competing for dominance.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe he could actually find peace here, far from the chaos of dating and relationships and women who wanted French billionaires instead of him.

"Oh, before I forget," Harold said suddenly, "the Kims moved into the old Peterson place about six months ago."

Edwin dragged his attention back from the window. "The Kims?"

"Korean family. Nice folks. The father's starting an organic farm—does all sorts of fancy vegetables the city restaurants pay big money for. The mother makes these incredible dumplings." Harold's eyes lit up at the memory. "And they have a daughter about your age. Kim Su Han, I think. Goes by Kimsoo."

Something cold prickled at the back of Edwin's neck. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"Just being informative,you know! New neighbors, that's all. Your grandmother's already invited them to dinner next week."

"Grandpa..."

"What? It's a dinner. Neighbors do that here. Welcome people to the community. Very wholesome. Very innocent."

"If Grandma is trying to set me up—"

"Your grandmother would never," Harold said, in a tone that suggested his grandmother absolutely would.

Edwin groaned. He had been in Willowbrook County for approximately fifteen minutes, and already his resolution was being tested.

"I'm not interested," he said firmly. "In meeting anyone, in dating anyone, in *anything* related to—"

"—romance, love, relationships, et cetera," Harold finished. "Your grandmother mentioned that too. Said you've sworn off women entirely."

"That's right."

"Like a monk."

"If necessary."

Harold was quiet for a moment. Then he burst out laughing—a big, booming laugh that filled the truck cab and echoed off the windows.

"Oh, Edwin," he said, wiping his eyes, "you really are Martha's grandson. Stubborn as a mule and twice as convinced you're right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Harold said, turning onto the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, "that life has a funny way of ignoring our plans. You can build all the walls you want, son. But sometimes, fate sends someone with a sledgehammer."

Edwin crossed his arms. "Then I'll build thicker walls."

"Mm-hmm."

"I will. I'm serious."

"I believe you."

Harold's tone suggested he didn't believe anything of the sort. But before Edwin could argue further, the farmhouse came into view, and his grandmother was running down the porch steps with her arms already open for a hug.

"You're here! You're finally here! Oh, let me look at you—have you been eating? You look thin. Come inside, I've made pot roast, just like I promised—"

She swept him into the house in a whirlwind of fussing and feeding, exactly as he remembered, exactly as he needed.

And for a few hours, as he ate pot roast and played chess with his grandfather and listened to his grandmother's gossip about everyone in town, Edwin almost forgot about his broken heart.

Almost forgot about his rules.

Almost forgot that somewhere nearby, there was a Korean girl named Kimsoo who was apparently about his age and who his grandmother had already plotted to introduce him to.

He was here to hide from romance.

He was here to heal.

He was here to never, ever fall in love again.

And absolutely *nothing* was going to change that.

**End of Chapter 1**

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