“I need to talk to you,” he says, his eyes darting to Betsy, then back to me. “Privately.”
Betsy’s face transforms from warm friend to protective lioness in an instant. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Her voice is low but razor-sharp. “You had sevenyears to talk to her, to say whatever was on your mind. Seven years, Jared.”
He shifts uncomfortably. “This is between Della and me.”
“I’m busy right now,” I say, gesturing to Betsy and our half-eaten dessert. My heart hammers against my ribs, but my voice remains steady. “If you have something to say, you can write me an email or a letter. Something I can delete or tear up if I choose.”
“Please,” he says, and for a moment I see something unfamiliar in his eyes—vulnerability. “I was wrong, Della. I should have married you years ago. I always wanted to, I just?—”
“Stop,” I interrupt, holding up my hand. The café suddenly feels too small, too warm. “That’s not true, Jared. You never wanted to marry me. Not really.”
“I did,” he insists, his voice taking on that whiny tone I’d grown to resent. “I do.”
I look at him—really look at him—and see him clearly for perhaps the first time. There is a slight sheen of desperation in his eyes, the way his confidence seems like a thin veneer rather than something solid and trustworthy.
“No,” I say softly, tracing the rim of my coffee mug with my fingertip. “What happened is you got out on the dating scene and realized you weren’t the catch you always believed you were.” The words should feel cruel leaving my lips, but they don’t. They’re simply true, like raindrops falling from clouds. “Women in their twenties aren’t impressed by a thirty-year-old man who still calls his mother every time he needs to make a decision.”
Betsy makes a choking sound that might be surprisedlaughter, her eyes dancing above the rim of her cappuccino.
Jared’s face flushes red, the color spreading from his neck to his hairline like spilled wine on white linen. Tiny beads of sweat appear at his temples. “That’s not?—”
“It is,” I say, my voice steady as a heartbeat, shoulders relaxed in a way they never were during our arguments in the apartment we once shared. “And that’s okay. But what’s not okay is thinking you can waltz back into my life because you’re feeling insecure.” I take a deep breath, inhaling the rich scent of chocolate and coffee that surrounds us. “I’ve moved on, Jared. I’m seeing someone who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it. Someone whose eyes don’t wander when he thinks I’m not looking. Who doesn’t need seven years to decide if I’m worth committing to?”
This guy,” Jared says, his voice edged with bitterness, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitching beneath his clean-shaven cheek. “What makes him so special? You’ve known him, what, a month?”
“None of your damn business!” I snap, feeling a slight smile curl at my lips despite the tension crackling between us. The café’s ambient chatter seems to fade away, leaving just us in this bubble of unfinished business. “And what makes him special is that he sees me. Really sees me. Not as an accessory or a placeholder, but as a partner.”
Jared’s mouth opens, then closes, his perfectly whitened teeth flashing briefly before disappearing. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows whatever retort he’d prepared. For once, the man who always had a smooth comeback seems utterly at a loss for words.
“I wish you well,” I tell him, my voice softening asunexpected warmth blooms in my chest—a feeling I’m surprised to find is genuine. I trace my finger along the handle of my coffee mug, no longer needing to grip it for support. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. But it’s not me, Jared. It was never me.”
He stands there for a moment longer, his shoulders slumping like a deflating balloon as something like realization dawns in his eyes. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, his expensive leather shoes clicking against the polished floor, the brass bell above the café door tinkling a cheerful goodbye as he exits into the late afternoon sunlight.
Betsy lets out a low whistle, her crimson-painted lips pursed. “Holy shit, Del. That was...”
“Overdue,” I finish for her, picking up my spoon again, feeling the cool weight of the silver against my fingers. The chocolate cake still looks delicious, its molten center oozing onto the white porcelain plate, and suddenly I’m ravenous, my stomach growling in anticipation. “Very overdue.”
“I was going to say ‘badass,’” Betsy grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she clinks her spoon against mine, the sound bright and victorious in the warm, coffee-scented air. “To new beginnings and men who know a good thing when they see it.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and genuine inside me, cascading through the café like wind chimes. My shoulders, tense for so long they’d forgotten how to relax, drop away from my ears as if invisible chains have finally fallen away. “I’ll drink to that,” I say, lifting my cappuccino with steady hands, the porcelain warm against my fingertips.
As we scrape the last decadent smears of chocolate from our plates, I find myself thinking of Axel—of his broad shoulders and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, of the way his calloused thumb traces circles on my wrist when he holds my hand, of how he looks at me like I’m a sunset he’s been waiting all day to witness. Tomorrow night, he’ll be back from his business trip, his voice no longer confined to late-night phone calls. And then we’ll have the whole weekend stretched before us like a ribbon of empty highway, nothing but possibility on the horizon.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m not afraid of what comes next. The familiar knot of anxiety that once lived between my shoulder blades has dissolved, replaced by a humming anticipation that makes my skin tingle. I’m ready for it—for him—for everything.
CHAPTER 11
AXEL
The winding road stretches ahead of us, trees forming a lush green tunnel as we make our way upstate. I glance over at Della, watching how the dappled sunlight through the leaves plays across her face. She's humming along to the radio, fingers tapping lightly on her thigh. The simple sight of her makes my chest tighten.
“Almost to our first pit stop,” I say, reaching over to rest my hand on her knee, feeling the warmth of her skin through the denim. “There’s a little farm stand that makes the best apple cider donuts you’ve ever tasted.”
She turns to me with that smile—the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and sends a jolt straight to my core. Her lips part slightly, and I grip the steering wheel tighter with my left hand. “Is that why you’re driving so fast? Got a donut emergency?"
“Among other emergencies,” I reply, my voice dropping lower as I slide my palm up her thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath my touch.
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing in the gravel lot, the sun beating down on my shoulders. Della leans against my car, the metal warm beneath her thighs. The donut crumbles between her fingers as she takes a bite, and I watch, transfixed, as her tongue darts out to catch a speck of sugar on her bottom lip. The soft moan she makes hits me low in my gut.
