“No, really, I’m good.” I step back, heart pounding. “Thank you, though. I had a good time.”
He seems to accept that, even if he doesn’t fully believe me. “Okay. Get home safe, yeah?”
“I will.”
I feel Jace watching every step I take toward the exit. It feels like standing in the center of a storm, silent, heavy, and impossible to ignore.
Right before I push the door open, I glance back.
Our eyes meet one more time. His are a mess of things I can’t unpack from across the room, hurt, anger, fear, and want. Like he’s silently asking me not to go, even though he doesn’t move.
Ethan says something to him again, hand on his shoulder. Jace tears his gaze away like it physically hurts.
I step outside before I can read anything else into it.
The cool air hits me like a slap.
I inhale hard, lungs burning, and lean against the brick wall for a second. The noise from inside dulls to a muffled hum behind me. Cars pass. Someone laughs down the block. The world keeps moving like my ribs aren’t trying to cave in.
I wrap my arms around myself and start walking slowly toward my car, heels clicking on the sidewalk. My phone buzzes again.
Emma: Home?
Me: Leaving now.
Emma: Do you want company?
Me: Not yet. I’ll text you when I’m back.
I shove my phone in my pocket and tilt my head back, staring up at the night sky. You can’t see stars here. Just a hazy glow and the faint outline of clouds.
For a second, I imagine an alternate version of tonight. One where I walked in and saw him alone. One where he crossed the room instead of freezing. One where we didn’t have wrong timing sitting between us like a wall.
I unlock my car and slip inside, shutting the door like I’m sealing myself away from the rest of the world. The engine hums to life, but my pulse is louder. I pull out of the lot on autopilot, headlights washing over empty streets while my mind stays stuck in that bar—stuck on a man who was perfectly fine and the one my heart couldn’t stop looking for.
By the time I reach my house, my chest feels bruised from holding it together.
I park in my driveway and shut the door a little harder than I should. The walk up to the porch feels longer than usual, like the air itself is heavier.
Inside the house, everything is too familiar. The couch. The throw blanket. The half-finished book on the coffee table. The silence.
I kick off my shoes and drop my bag by the door.
My reflection in the dark TV screen looks wrecked. Eyes shiny. Shoulders tense. Mouth pressed in a thin line.
I cross the room and brace my hands on the back of the couch, dropping my head.
I hoped that going on a date would prove something.
That I could feel something for someone else. That I could move on. Or that maybe all of this was just habit and history and comfort.
Instead, all it did was prove the opposite.
Because the second he walked in, the second his eyes met mine, the entire room disappeared. The date. The drinks. The safe, nice guy talking about his sock-eating dog.
None of it mattered.
I straighten slowly and press my fingers to my sternum like I can push the ache back in.
