No. Absolutely not. I tilt my head, giving him a clear buzz off signal that any reasonably evolved human being should understand. Jake responds by taking a long sip of water, eyes never leaving my face. The man is infuriating.
Lance shifts in his seat, his posture stiffening with each passing second. I should have predicted this. Jake has always been territorial, even about things—people—he threw away.
My brain scrambles for non-violent extraction methods. Maybe I could fake an emergency phone call? Too obvious. Or perhaps I could accidentally-on-purpose spill my drink all over Jake’s precious button-down? Tempting, but we’ve already hadone coffee catastrophe this week, and I don’t need anyone else to see me baptizing Jake with beverages. Besides, in a crowded café with witnesses, neither option feels feasible.
“The thing about this client,” Jake continues, like we’re in a conference room and not on my first promising date in years, “is that they’re particular about messaging. The creative direction needs to balance luxury with accessibility—“
Lance’s arm slides around my shoulders, drawing me in against his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His cologne wraps around me, spicy and warm, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of his breath brushing my hair. Heat blooms across my cheeks, spills down my neck, and I have to remind myself to keep breathing.
“Fascinating,” Lance says, his sarcasm-laced voice a low rumble I feel more than hear. “Please, tell me more.”
It happens fast—almost too fast to notice in the dimness of the café lighting—but Jake’s eye twitches once before his jaw locks tight. His fingers grip the water glass hard enough that I half expect it to shatter.
Something shifts in my chest—a petty, vindictive sort of satisfaction followed immediately by an inexplicable urge to smooth away the tension crackling between them. Part of me wants to slip out from under Lance’s arm just to defuse Jake’s visible fury. But there’s another part—a louder, perhaps spiteful part—that wants Jake to understand he doesn’t get to steamroll over my life anymore. He doesn’t get to decide when and how I move on.
Jealousy. I’ve never seen this particular shade of it on Jake before. What gives him the right to be jealous? We belong in the past, buried with heartbreak and all the things we never said out loud. Water under the bridge, as they say. Cold water that still creeps up on me during lonely nights and makes me shiver.
But I wrap myself in blankets of indifference. I keep myself warm.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable, like taffy pulled nearly to breaking. Lance’s thumb draws slow circles on my shoulder, absentminded and intimate, while Jake stares daggers at the spot where Lance’s skin meets mine.
Just when I think I might actually snap from the tension, a perky waitress bounces over to our table, order pad in hand.
“Hey there, beautiful people! What can I get for y’all tonight?”
Jake swoops in before I can even lift my menu, his voice smoothing into that confident, infuriating cadence. “I’ll have the T-bone steak,” he says, and then, “and for Sarah…”
He flips the laminated menu with casual familiarity, like he’s been granted some divine right to speak for me. “Hot panini chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries. No bacon or cheese, honey mustard on the side. Also, a blueberry muffin and a cherry Coke.”
Heat rises to my cheeks, not from flattery but irritation. “I can order for myself,” I tell him, making sure my irked tone lands with the precision of a well-aimed dart.
The moment I finish reviewing the options, I strategically raise the menu to shield my face, creating a flimsy barricade between me and Jake’s inevitable smugness. “One hot panini chicken sandwich with sweet potato fries. No bacon or cheese, with honey mustard on the side. And a blueberry muffin and cherry coke.”
It is at this exact moment that Lance withdraws his arm, the warmth of his touch disappearing like sun behind clouds. Behind my paper fortress, I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the tiny spark that ignites in my chest. I hate it—hate that after everything, something inside me still preens at how well Jake remembers what I like; hate that the boy who left me in shambles knows exactly the kind of desserts I like, andapparently, my exact sandwich specifications. When I finally lower my menu, I realize that I completely missed what Lance had ordered.
“I know all of her eating habits,” Jake tells Lance. “She always eats the crust first when she has pizza.” His eyes flick to me, “Isn’t that weird?”
My eyes narrow to slits, a silent command for him to stop this emotional excavation he’s so gleefully conducting. My defenses feel paper-thin, and I’m not nearly strong enough for this sudden ambush of shared memories.
Lance’s smile never falters as he turns to me. “Nothing wrong with that,” he says, his tone gentle. “I like to enjoy the crust, too—especially when it’s stuffed.”
Thank God for the waitress, who appears like a guardian angel with our food, saving me from this testosterone-fueled standoff before it has a chance to blow up.
I take a generous bite of my panini, grateful for something to focus on that isn’t Jake’s knowing eyes or Lance’s too-patient smiles. Flavor floods my mouth, spices and herbs blooming at once, juicy chicken and crisp bread coming together in a messy, perfect symphony that briefly drowns out the chaotic duet at our table. The sweet potato fries are crisp on the outside, pillow-soft within, and for a few blessed seconds, I can pretend this is just dinner. Just food. Just normal.
Jake ignores Lance entirely, his attention locking onto me like it’s the first time he’s seen me in four years instead of the third time today. “Is your favorite color still red?” he asks, voice almost curious. “You’d buy anything and everything red. You were obsessed.”
His gaze slides to my dress, while my foot taps a restless rhythm under the table.
“Your room looked like it was sponsored by Target,” he says, grinning with the satisfaction of someone who knows too much about my preferences.
Despite my best efforts, a giggle bubbles up and escapes. “Excuse you, it was curated.”
“Red comforter. Red curtains. Red fairy lights.” Jake counts each item off on his fingers like evidence in a case he’s building. “And let’s not forget that weird red desk lamp.” His grin widens. “You wouldn’t even buy a blue notebook because it clashed with your red vibe.”
“I was passionate and it was artistic.” A groan escapes me, half-embarrassment, half-wonder. “Why do you remember this?”
Something shifts in his eyes—something deeper than the casual teasing. “I guess some things stick,” he says softly.
