Like he'd expected it all along.
Sunday arrives cold and bright.I dress carefully. Not trying to impress but not trying not to either. Jeans, sweater, minimal makeup. The kind of outfit that says I've moved on without screaming it.
The cafe Evan chose is new. Trendy. All exposed brick and Edison bulbs and avocado toast at eighteen dollars a plate.
He's already seated. Still handsome in that calculated way. Pressed shirt. Good watch. Hair product that probably costs more than my monthly coffee supply budget.
"Lacy." He stands, kisses my cheek. "You look great."
"Thanks. You too."
We sit. Order. The small talk flows easily because we've had practice. Two years of dating teaches you someone's rhythms even after you've stopped loving them.
"So how's the bookstore going?" he asks, cutting his eggs Benedict with surgical precision.
I take a sip of my coffee, overroasted, which figures, and consider my answer. "Surviving. Barely."
His brow furrows in that concerned way that used to feel comforting but now just feels patronizing. "Still stressing about the finances?"
Always. Every single day. Every time I check the accounts or see another bill in the mail or lie awake at three in the morning doing mental math that never quite adds up. But I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how close to the edge I'm running.
"I'm managing," I say instead, keeping my voice light.
"That's what you always say." He sips his mimosa. "Even when you're drowning."
I bristle. "I'm not drowning."
"Okay." He raises a hand. Placating. "I'm just saying you don't have to do everything alone. That was always your problem."
My problem. Like my independence was a character flaw instead of necessity.
"Is there a point to this brunch, Evan? Or are we just relitigating our relationship?"
He has the grace to look uncomfortable. "Actually, yes. There's something I wanted to discuss."
Here it comes. Whatever networking opportunity or business advice or well-meaning criticism he's been rehearsing.
"I'm taking over the regional management position. At Apex Solutions."
"That's great. Congratulations."
"Thanks." He pauses. Measured. "I'm building a team. I need a logistics coordinator. Someone organized, detail-oriented, good with people. I thought of you immediately."
I blink. "You're offering me a job?"
"A good job. Salary, benefits, retirement matching. Stability."
Stability. The word tastes like chalk.
"I run my own business."
"A business that's bleeding money. You said it yourself." He leans forward. Earnest now. "I'm not trying to insult you. I'm trying to help. This could solve your financial stress. Give you breathing room. Let you take care of your aunt without constantly juggling."
Everything he's saying makes sense. Logical. Practical. The kind of safe choice past-Lacy would have agonized over before eventually accepting because security is more important more than dreams.
But something in me recoils.
"What about the bookstore?"
