Paxton: Anyway, this could very well be the universe reminding you that you’re more than how that jackass ex made you feel. It’s simple math: Hot girl + naked run-in – dignity = future wedding toast material.
Me: You’re the absolute worst.
Paxton: Actually, I’m the best. And trust me, this’ll all blow over soon, girlie.
Ireallyhope he’s right.
Me: I’m up next in line. Phone’s dying (shocker). Text you later.
After placing my order, I drift to the pickup area and nestle among other customers, catching the tail end of a middle-aged couple debating oat milk versus almond.
The aroma of espresso clings to the air while upbeat music pulses through the café, syncing perfectly with Seaport Coffee Café’s breezy, beach-town vibe.
Locals sprawl inside and out—some in swimsuits, others in sun-faded shorts—chatting over cold brew, zoning out behind laptops, or simply soaking in the salty breeze like it’s part of the menu.
It reminds me of a little café near Oxford, where we’d cram in a corner booth that always smelled like cinnamon rolls and wet umbrellas. Tavia would quiz me on theory while Liam played breakup songs on repeat, claiming it helped him focus.
That flicker of familiarity warms me.
I miss that version of England, those people, those nights filled with laughter and caffeine-fueled panic. But Tavia and Liam were my ex’s friends before they were mine. So when I left the chaos, I left them, too. My therapist said I don’t need to rewrite the past—just edit my future and sprinkle in happiness like powdered sugar on pancakes.
Some days I believe her.
The scrape of a chair pulls me back to now.
Neighbor Guy places his order, and when he steps up beside me—confident strides, casual swagger—I steal a better glance.
Sweet hell.
Skyscraper-tall in worn denim. A silk tee stretched tight across muscles he couldn’t hide even if he tried.
Jet-black, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair.
A jaw that could cut glass.
Gunmetal eyes rimmed in lashes influencers would start a tutorial war over.
If our first encounter hadn’t involved full-frontal nudity, I might’ve offered a flirtatious smile, assuming he’s not taken, or worse, one of those charming, self-absorbed types. The type I’m apparently cursed to attract.
But…none of that matters anyway.
I’m on a strict, self-imposed relationship detox. Men are beautiful disasters wrapped in cologne and contradiction. Trust me, I know. My ex was a five-alarm emotional inferno I barely escaped.
Now, over a year later, even though my heart’s mostly stitched back together, there are still days when it feels like pieces of me are scattered in places I don’t want to revisit.
Which is exactly why I’m keeping every last piece to myself.
This summer is meant to be a breather. Just sun, silence, and space to reset. One last exhale before I dive headfirst into the real world, into a “big girl” job in New York with long hours, big expectations, and the next version of me. Whatever that is.
Neighbor Guy and I lock eyes for half a second—and ohmygosh, wait. Did he justsmirk?
A crooked, all-knowing smirk?
Yep. He definitely knows I’m the one who introduced myself boobs-first.
Fabulous.
Ticket for one to Saturn, please. Or anywhere people haven’t seen my bare ass in the moonlight.
