I should probably say hello. If he spots me sitting out here for over an hour, coiled tight with nerves, he’s going to think I’m here to see him. To talk. To heal old wounds.
That’s the last thing I want.
Slowly, I rise from the booth. The fork clinks against the edge of the plate as I shuffle off the seat, shed my coat, and swipe my sweaty palms down my jeans.
This is just a quick hello—a courtesy, nothing more.
But when I round the counter and catch sight of the kitchen through the small square window carved into the swinging door, I stop cold.
There he is.
Alex.
Exactly as I remember him.
Red-faced. Jaw clenched. Shouting orders with that same sharp tone that always made me wince and wilt. He slams a pan onto the stovetop hard enough to make the shelf above it rattle. One of the younger cooks flinches. Another avoids eye contact altogether, head ducked as he preps a plate in silence.
I wait, watching.
Just to see.
Just to make sure I’m not projecting the worst onto him. That maybe he’s changed.
But no.
It’s all still there—that volatile, bottled-up rage that never had anywhere to go except outward. The cursing. The scowl. The anger he wears like armor and spreads like wildfire.
And suddenly I’m twenty-one again, back in that stifling condo, holding my breath while he stormed around the kitchen, pissed at the world and everyone in it.
I back away from the door before he has a chance to look up. My legs move on instinct, carrying me back to my booth. The coffee’s gone cold. The peaches look like they’ve melted into syrup. I leave a twenty-dollar bill on the table and disappear out the main entrance.
My hand circles my opposite wrist, massaging, rubbing away the memory of viselike grips and painful bruises.
I realize now that some people grow. Evolve. Shed their damage and learn how to be better, live kinder, and love softer.
Others stay exactly who they are.
And right now, I’m too focused on saving someone whowantsto be saved than to waste a single second on someone who never did.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pacing outside the restaurant when a figure approaches on my left. I pivot around, catching sight of baby-blue hospital scrubs peeking through a billowing trench coat, and shiny black hair pulled up into a severe bun.
Two dark-brown eyes pan the entrance, doing a double take when they spot me gripping my cell phone so hard it might crack in my fist.
Parvati falters briefly, blinking with a trace of uncertainty. “Annalise,” she says, stopping just short of the doorway. “My father said you wanted to see me.”
Nerves tighten every muscle in my body. “I did. Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you’d… I didn’t know if you’d even come.”
“Do you want to talk out here?”
“Yes. Please,” I say quickly, glancing back at the glass doors. “Out here’s better.”
She tugs her coat tighter, but she doesn’t complain. Her badge is still clipped to her waistband, and there’s a faint shadow of exhaustion under her eyes from sick patients and long hospital hours. But she looks calm. In control.
I don’t feel either of those things.
“I know this is strange,” I begin, pocketing my phone. “And I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I came here because…” I trail off, swallowing the raw truth behind what I’m about to say. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”
Her inky brows pull together, but she stays silent, waiting for more.
