Jake Matthews. At Lantern Bridge Agency. Potentially my coworker—or worse, my superior.
My lungs compress, like the air has suddenly turned thick and heavy in my chest. How did I end up in the blast radius of theone person who shattered me? I close my eyes for half a second, searching for calm, and it’s a mistake.
The images surge in like a tide. Jake’s face this morning. The widening of his eyes. The way his gaze slid away from mine as if looking at me would burn. His voice was steady, casual, controlled, pretending our history wasn’t sitting between us like a loaded gun.
The barista calls for the next customer. I step forward, ordering on autopilot while my mind rewinds through a highlight reel of confusion.
What could I have done differently back then? I’ve replayed every conversation until the words lost meaning, dissected every argument, analyzed every text message like there might be a hidden code that explains why he left. We were happy. At least, I thought we were.
We’d spent hours sketching out our future like it was inevitable, the downtown apartment, weekends at the lake, his writing, my marketing career, all of it braided together until it felt like one life. And then, suddenly, his last words to me shattered it. One sentence and my heart cracked open.
My name gets called. I grab my drink and retreat to a corner table, watching steam curl from the cup like question marks.
For four years, I functioned. I excelled, even. Graduated top of my class. Earned the interview at Lantern Bridge. Collected milestones and told myself I was fine.
But I never actually dealt with the void he left behind, the hollow space that echoed when the world went quiet at night. I just patched it with deadlines and projects and presentations, stacking accomplishment on top of accomplishment until I’d built a life with load-bearing walls of achievement.
Now here I sit, back in Maplewood Springs, that patchwork threatening to unravel at the seams.
I take a sip of my cappuccino, and the taste hits like a memory I didn’t consent to. Caramel and coffee and warmth that shouldn’t hurt yet somehow does. It tastes like summers and first kisses and promises at the lake—all the things I tried so hard to forget.
But working alongside Jake every single day? Sitting through staff meetings, pitching clients, pretending my pulse isn’t misbehaving while he hovers in my peripheral vision like a shadow I can’t outrun? And the worst part, the part that makes my stomach roll, is the idea that he might have authority over my career, that he could weigh my future in his hands like it’s just another file on his desk. That isn’t an inconvenience. That’s a special kind of psychological torture I’m not prepared for.
The bell above the door chimes. I look up, and my heart does an actual somersault when two familiar faces fill the doorway. Maisie and Claire pause just long enough to scan the café, their expressions lighting up in perfect unison the second they spot me tucked away in the corner.
Their smiles hit me like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, so loaded with relief and love it makes me breathe easily, nearly knocking over my drink as I rush toward them.
“Sarah!” Claire squeals, her curly hair bouncing as she rushes toward me, arms already spreading wide.
Maisie is right behind her, laughing and vibrating with excitement. “Look at you, New York girl!”
We collide in a messy three-way hug that sends us spinning, laughing and stumbling like kids playing ring-around-the-rosy.
Four years. Four entire years of texts and video calls and birthday packages instead of this—their real arms around me, their real warmth, the reassuring presence of the women who know every ugly secret I’ve ever tried to hide and love me anyway.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this,” I manage as we pull apart, my voice thick and wrecked in the best way. Tears blur the café into soft shapes and warm light, and for once I don’t bother pretending I’m fine. I swipe at my cheek, then laugh through it. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”
Claire swipes at her eyes. “No more missing each other,” she says, voice thick but firm. “You’re staying this time, remember?”
I manage a smile, but Jake’s face flashes through my mind, his unexpected presence at the agency like a bruise I keep prodding. I shove the thought away before it can bloom into panic. Not now. I refuse to let him steal this moment. I breathe in, steadying myself, and choose to savor this reunion.
We settle into our old table by the window, the one we claimed back in high school when we’d spend hours pretending to do homework while discussing boys like it was an academic subject. The familiarity hits like déjà vu, time folding in on itself. Maisie sits with her perfect posture, composed as ever. Claire instantly sprawls across her chair like it’s a chaise lounge. And the afternoon light pours through the glass, warm and slanting, the same window that’s witnessed a thousand of our conversations and keeps all our secrets anyway.
“How have you two been, really?” I ask, leaning forward and gripping my mug with both hands.
Claire tucks a wild curl behind her ear, her eyes bright. “Good,” she says. “I’m practically running the kitchen at the restaurant now that Grandma’s arthritis is acting up.” Her mouth quirks. “She still bosses everyone around, though. Arthritis can take her hands, but it can’t take her authority.”
“And still makes the best pies in three counties,” Maisie adds with a grin.
“That’s amazing,” I say, and I mean it. Claire’s culinary dreams once felt impossible, weighed down by money and reality andthe kind of obstacles that crush people. And yet here she is. “Your grandma must be so proud.”
Claire shrugs like it’s nothing, but her smile is pure satisfaction, bright and earned. “It took some convincing to get her to hand over the wooden spoon,” she admits, eyes glittering, “but now she brags to everyone that her granddaughter’s the chef.”
I turn to Maisie, curiosity burning too hot to keep contained. “Okay,” I say, leaning in, “I need all the details.”
My gaze flicks over her face, searching for a crack, a tell. “You and Logan Humphries?” I whisper his name like it might summon paparazzi. “The Logan Humphries who once set off fireworks in the principal’s car?”
I throw my hands up, helpless. “How did this happen?”
