"And you loved it." His eyes flash, hurt and heat mingling. "Don't pretend you didn't crave it. Don't pretend I made you do something you didn't want."
"I'm not pretending." My voice cracks. "God, I wanted it. That was the problem. I wanted it all—you, the intensity, the way you burned yourself into my skin. But I wanted my career, too. I couldn't figure out how to want both and still be me."
Noah's silence is brutal. Heavy.
"You still should've told me," he says at last. "We should've had the damn conversation. Instead, you left me standing in the parking lot like a fool, waiting to hear from the girl who swore she'd always be honest with me."
I flinch. Because he's right.
"I thought if I stayed long enough to say goodbye, I'd never actually go. All you'd have to do was look at me, and I'd forget every reason I had for leaving..."
"Jesus, Riley." His expression fractures then—grief crawling over the strong lines of his face. “You make me sound like a predator.”
"I was scared." The admission slips out raw. "Not of you. Of how much I wanted what you were offering. Of how easy it would've been to forget every dream that didn't involve you."
His hand drags over his mouth, the motion familiar and tired. "I was angry for a long time. I told you that. I've forgiven myself for the parts I got wrong, but that doesn't mean it stopped hurting."
"I know." I lower my voice.
“Why did you wait ten years to come back?" His voice is hoarse now. "Why did you let me think you never cared?"
"I cared." My throat tightens. "I cared so much I couldn't breathe."
"And yet, you never called.” He looks at me like he's drowning all over again.
"Because I didn't know how to be yours and mine at the same time."
He closes his eyes briefly, and when they open again, the fire has dimmed—but it hasn't gone out.
"I'm not trying to beat this to death." His tone is quieter. "I just want you to know it wasn't a clean break for me. I lived in the wreckage of what we were for a long time."
"I'm sorry for that." The ache in my chest expands, hollow and aching. "If it helps, so did I."
Silence pulses between us.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Darlene from Maggie's Diner leaning conspicuously closer at her nearby table, pretending to stir a drink she hasn't touched in ten minutes.
"This isn't professional," I mutter, gathering my bag.
"Right. Let's be professional," he says with a bitter smile.
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair." His expression softens, just slightly. "Life rarely is."
"I'll see you at eight." I stand, breath shaky, heart unspooling in my chest.
"Will we finish this?" He nods slowly, unreadable. "Or will you run again when it gets too real?"
I pause.
I don't answer.
But then...
"I'll be here at eight, like I promised."
The emotional ambush of the conversation has left me raw, exposed in ways I haven't allowed myself to be in years. Noah's accusations hit too close to home. Did I run when things got real? Yes. Is that what I'm still doing, hiding behind professionalism and career goals?
