Small Things You Promised Chapter 01
I broke up with Cayson Adkins right after he proposed. The floor was the last straw—sticky with spilled champagne and buried beneath a sea of streamers.
My best friend couldn’t believe it. She asked if he’d cheated or if he’d hit me.
I shook my head, smiling. “No.”
She groaned. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Just tell him to clean it up.”
“He won’t.”
Cayson would just brush it off with a “no big deal,” like he always did.
A while back, he threw me a birthday party. By the end of the night, frosting was all over the place.
He promised to clean it.
He didn’t. It sat there until it stank.
When I finally snapped, he looked at me like I was the unreasonable one.
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “Why get so worked up?”
Maybe it was no big deal.
But Cayson knew my back pain flared so badly I could hardly stand.
He still watched me on the floor, scraping hardened frosting off bit by bit.
Then there was the kitchen. It got so stiflingly hot that I’d fainted there more than once.
So I asked for an air conditioner in that room.
Cayson said he’d handle it, but nothing ever happened.
It was always the same answer.
“Baby, it’s no big deal. I’ve been swamped. I forgot.”
With him, everything was “no big deal.”
I told myself that men just didn’t care about chores and that, given enough time, Cayson would learn.
Then his childhood sweetheart, Sadie Hammond, came over. There were chopped onions in the dish. She didn’t notice.
But Cayson did. He took the plate and picked them all out.
“It’s fine. There are hardly any,” she said, grinning.
He shook his head, serious.
“No, onions make your arms itch. Why risk it?”
Watching him fuss over her, I felt hollow.
I didn’t want to be the one stuck with all the small things.
My best friend sighed and patted my shoulder.
Later, when I walked her out, Cayson’s voice came, tight with irritation.
“The proposal was going fine. Are you seriously ending it over a dirty floor?
“Everyone busted their ass helping me, and you’re throwing it all away.”
I looked down at the mess.
“Who planned it?”
He glanced toward the living room, a hint of reproach in his voice.
“I’ve got too many projects going on lately. And you always say I don’t get romance, so I asked Sadie. She’s got taste. I trusted her.
“She spent days on this, running around, picking things out. And you just blow up.”
I looked at the decorations and felt like laughing.
The streamers were pink—I hated it, but it was Sadie’s favorite.
The flowers were baby’s breath, which I’d always said was just filler.
The balloons had a cartoon I couldn’t stand, the one I always avoided in stores.
Sadie had been obsessed with it ever since high school, snapping up every piece of merchandise she could find.
This was supposed to be my proposal, but none of it felt like me.
“How can it mean anything if you’re not the one planning it?” I shot back.
Cayson’s face dropped.
“There you go again.
“I’ve got a deadline. Sure, I didn’t plan it myself, but I still made sure everything was the best. This ring alone cost 12,000 dollars. Why are you nitpicking?”
I looked at the ring in his hand. The diamond was large, brilliantly cut, all vintage glamour.
It was gorgeous, but not me.
Flashy things were never my style.
I’d told Cayson at least ten times, and he still forgot.
Maybe the weariness showed on my face because his tone softened.
“Fine, it’s on me. Come on, are we really ending it over this?
“We just bought the apartment. What are we supposed to do with it?”
The mention of the apartment drained the fight out of me.
We’d bought it three months ago. Good location, reasonable price.
Half the down payment took everything I’d saved since I started working.
If we split up, we’d have to sell it, and it could take a long time.
I closed my eyes. “Forget it. We’ll deal with it later.”
Cayson let out a breath of relief and ruffled my hair. “That’s my girl. Don’t toss out ‘break up’ every time you get mad.”
Sadie let out a dramatic cheer.
“Good, no more fighting. I’ll pick another date. I’ll do it properly; Raelynn will like it!”
She pulled out her phone and checked. “What about the sixteenth next month? That day—”
“No. That’s your birthday,” Cayson interrupted in a firm voice.
She blinked, like she’d forgotten.
“It’s fine. The proposal’s more important.”
He frowned.
“Birthdays matter. It’s only once a year. We’ll do it right. The proposal can wait—it’s not like there’s a deadline for that.”
He looked at me like he wanted agreement.
I didn’t bother.
“Fine. Do what you want.”
My quick answer caught Cayson off guard.
He watched me, suspicious, checking if I was holding it against him again.
“Alright. Just don’t come back later and complain.”
“I won’t,” I said.
That night, I called a lawyer about selling the apartment.
If everything went smoothly, it would take ten to fifteen days. If not, a month or two.
I’d already made it through five years. I could wait a little longer.
When I got home with the papers, Cayson was curled on the sofa, gaming.
“Sign this.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Fit‑out paperwork. They need both owners to confirm the plan. Just sign.”
He barely looked at it, flipped to the last page, and signed.
“It’s nothing. You handle it.”
I knew he wouldn’t look.
He hadn’t bothered back when we bought the place either.
Aside from paying, I handled everything on my own—the listings, the neighborhood search, the contract.
When the agent harassed me over the commission, I called Cayson in a panic.
He was in Europe, too busy to come back.
“Babe, I can’t leave. You’re going to be the one running things anyway. It’s your call,” he told me.
If he skipped the purchase, why would he care about the fit‑out?
I checked every page of the listing agreement—signatures, dates, everything in order.