She doesn’t see me watching. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
The jazz band starts up again, soft and low, smoothing over the applause as people return to their conversations. The notes blend into the hum of silverware and voices, and all I can think about is how I nearly threw away my job and my composure over something some idiot made up.
Over her.
I drain the rest of my water, forcing down the taste of whiskey that’s still sitting heavy in my throat. The speech keeps running through my head—community, resilience, redemption. Words that used to mean something. Words I don’t feel like I’ve earned anymore.
Across the room, Sarah leans in toward a table of donors, all easy charm and quiet confidence. She looks like she belongs in this world, the smooth one, the polished one. The world that kept moving while I stayed stuck in the wreckage.
And me? I’m the guy in the corner pretending he can breathe just fine in a suit that doesn’t fit.
Ethan nudges me with his elbow. “You good?” he murmurs.
I manage a nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
He snorts softly. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
I almost smile. Almost.
The band transitions into something slower, piano and brushed drums. The music seeps into the empty spaces, softening the noise but not the distance between us. And somehow, it makes everything louder.
I should leave. Go home. Forget this night ever happened.
But I don’t move. I just sit there, watching her like an idiot.
The coach steps offstage to polite applause, and the crowd rises to mingle again. Sarah’s voice floats across the distance, bright, professional, untouchable.
And for a split second, I wonder what she’d think if she knew what almost happened outside.
If she knew how close I came to breaking my word, my control, myself.
The answer’s simple.
She’d look at me exactly how she is now.
Like she already knew.
By the time the speeches end, the night’s started to thin. The crowd shifts toward the exits in slow waves, half-hearted laughter, polite goodbyes, the shuffle of chairs against tile. The band’s still playing, but softer now, a slow fade into something that feels more like background noise than music.
I’m still at the table, a half-finished drink in front of me, condensation pooling in a ring on the white linen. Ethan’s somewhere behind me, talking with one of the boosters about next season’s schedule. Emma’s helping a volunteer gather up donation cards.
Across the room, Sarah’s collecting her things from the department table. Clipboard, name tags, the little stack of leftover programs. She’s moving with purpose, precise and unhurried, the way she always has. Ellie’s beside her, saying something that makes her laugh. The sound barely reaches me, but my body recognizes it and I feel it anyway. That only reminds me she’s just out of reach.
She thanks a few people on her way toward the door, shakes hands, smiles, does the whole polished routine. By the time she reaches Emma and Ethan, her expression softens, genuine for the first time all night.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
Emma smiles back. “You pulled off another miracle, Sarah. It was perfect.”
Sarah laughs lightly. “I’ll take ‘perfect’ while it lasts.”
Emma steps forward and pulls her into a hug, the kind that’s warm and genuine, not just for show. “You did good, hon,” she murmurs.
Sarah’s smile softens against her shoulder. “Thanks, Em. Really.”
Then her eyes find me.
It’s quick, a flicker of recognition, a pause that hangs there, quiet but loaded. There’s no anger in it, no warmth either. Just distance. The kind of distance that sayswe’ve already said everything worth saying.
