He looks down at his expensive shoes, then back up at me. His eyes are exactly how I remember—like the ocean during a storm. “I think we have plenty to talk about.”
“Five years too late for that.” My voice comes out stronger than I feel. Good.
A boat horn sounds somewhere far off in the fog, mournful and lonely. Zayn shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pockets. The suit fits him perfectly now, not like when he was younger and suits always looked like he was playing dress-up.
“I moved back to Bellrose,” he says carefully. “For good. I took a position at Hargrove & Associates.”
His words land like a physical blow. I knew he was back since last night but hearing him say “for good” makes my heart hurt. That small part of me that still cares—the same part that keeps our old photo hidden under my floorboards—feels a dangerous flicker of hope.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but he must see something in my eyes because he takes another step closer, like he can sense my defenses cracking. “I stopped caring about your plans five years ago,” I say, but my voice wavers at the end. I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “I need to get back to work.”
I try to walk past him, hugging the opposite rail of the narrow boardwalk. But I still catch his scent—expensive cologne, woodsy and rich, nothing like the cheap body wash smell from before.
“Sophie,” he says as I pass. “I’m not giving up.”
I keep walking, not looking back, but his words follow me through the fog.
Why now? Why come back now, when I’ve finally convinced myself I’m over him? When I’m dating nice, safe guys who can’t hurt me because I never let them close enough? When I’ve built my entire life around schedules and sure things and staying away from exactly these kinds of messy feelings?
As I turn the corner toward the clinic, memories ambush me. Zayn whispering “always” against my skin. The way hishands cradled my face like I was something precious. Our tearful goodbye when he chose Seattle and his career over us. The ache that never really left, that I’ve learned to live around.
The fog feels cool and damp against my overheated face. I only realize I’m crying when I taste salt on my lips and can’t tell if it’s tears or sea spray.
This isn’t some romance novel. The guy doesn’t come back after years and fix everything by showing up. Real life doesn’t work that way. Hearts don’t work that way.
CHAPTER 5
Through the Window
My scraped hands throb when the metal of the keys digs into the raw skin as I unlock our apartment door. I’m exhausted—from the long shift at the clinic, from falling on the boardwalk, but mostly from seeing Zayn twice in one day after five years of nothing. I want to hide in my room with Mia and lose myself in a book where the heroine never forgives the guy who abandoned her. But when I push the door open, I smell Harper’s spicy cooking and Sara’s flowery chamomile tea. Home. Safe. Until I have to tell them what happened.
“Sophie?” Sara calls from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
I kick off my shoes next to Harper’s scuffed black boots and Sara’s neat row of ballet flats. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Harper appears in the kitchen doorway, red hair piled messily on her head, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon. “You’re late. I texted you five times.” Her eyes rake over me—my stained scrubs, my bandaged hands, my red-rimmed eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I fell,” I say. True, but not the whole truth.
Sara steps up beside Harper, blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, blue eyes instantly filled with concern. “Your hands,” she says, moving closer. “Let me see.”
I hold them out. Her touch is gentle as she examines the bandages. Careful hands from years of working with animals, like mine. “You’ve got splinters still,” she says. “I’ll grab the tweezers.”
“After you tell us why you look like you’ve been crying,” Harper adds, crossing her arms.
My stomach knots up. Here we go. “I saw Zayn again,” I say, each word feeling heavy. “At the boardwalk. We… talked.”
Harper drops her wooden spoon. It clatters against the hardwood. Her face flushes red, starting at her neck and creeping up to her cheeks. “What? He approached you? What did he say? What did you say? Should I kill him now or after dinner?”
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. When Harper goes full mama bear, it’s terrifying and comforting in equal measure. Sara guides me to the couch, then disappears to grab the first aid kit we keep stocked for work accidents and the occasional animal scratch.
“He said he’s back for good,” I tell them as Sara returns with tweezers, antiseptic, and fresh bandages. “He took a job at Hargrove & Associates downtown.”
“For good?” Harper’s voice pitches higher. She starts pacing across our living room with such force that my romance novels tremble on their shelves. “Then he better keep his distance.”
Sara takes my right hand and dabs antiseptic on it. The sting makes my eyes water. “Try to hold still,” she murmurs, working the first splinter free with the tweezers. It hurts, but I don’t move.
“We could slash his tires,” Harper announces suddenly, spinning to face us. Her eyes are lit with righteous fury and what looks suspiciously like glee. “Or put itching powder in his dry cleaning! Or—wait! I know! We could hire a mariachi band to follow him around playing breakup songs!” She mimes playinga tiny violin with a completely straight face, despite how absurd the suggestion is.
