She nods once, polite and professional. “Goodnight, Jace.”
It’s been years since she said my name out loud. It lands somewhere I can’t quite reach.
I clear my throat, managing a quiet, “Night,” that doesn’t sound like me at all.
She holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, then turns away.
Her hair shifts as she walks, that same dark green dress brushing against her legs. Her heels click softly against the floor, fadinginto the hum of the room, into the kind of silence that feels deliberate.
Ethan doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches her go, glass in hand, expression unreadable. When the door finally closes behind her, he lets out a slow breath.
“You really think pretending’s gonna make it easier?”
I stare at the empty doorway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He gives a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, you do.”
I don’t look at him. “Drop it, Ethan.”
“Not my business,” he says, raising both hands in mock surrender. “But maybe figure out why you still care so much.”
I don’t have a response to that, well, not one that doesn’t sound pathetic anyway.
The band finishes their last song, a low, mournful stretch of piano and sax that fades into applause. The sound barely reaches me. My chest feels tight again, same as it did outside. Same as it always does when she’s near.
Emma joins us, slipping her arm through Ethan’s. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” he says, though his eyes flick toward me one last time. “Try to get some sleep, man and don’t overthink it.”
I nod, because that’s what I do. I nod, I say I’m fine, and everyone lets me lie because it’s easier.
When they head out, I stay. The event staff starts breaking down tables, laughter echoing softly across the emptying room. Someone calls goodnight to me, and I lift a hand without turning around.
Through the tall windows, the streetlit parking lot glows. For a second, I spot Sarah standing by her car, arms crossed, talking to Miller.
He’s leaning in too close, that smug grin still plastered on his face. She says something short, sharp enough that even from here, I can tell it’s a warning. Then she gets in her car and shuts the door without looking back.
Her taillights disappear into the rain.
I drag a hand over my face, the ache behind my eyes settling deep.
She looked composed. Whole. Untouched by the night, by me, by whatever the hell this still is.
And I want to believe it, really, I do.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest, steady as a heartbeat I can’t shut off.
She looks like she’s moved on.
Maybe she has.
But God, I haven’t.
Chapter Ten
The Last Thread
Sierra
