Chapter 9
Levi
Sitting across from Becca at Holloway’s felt strangely normal, which was probably the most surprising part of the whole thing.
The booth smelled faintly of old wood polish and lemon cleanser, the same scent that had clung to my jacket after every Friday night here.
She sat with her leg tucked under her the way she always used to.
Her ginger ale sweated on the scarred tabletop, condensation rolling down the glass in slow, fat drops, cherries bobbing like little red buoys.
The low hum of conversation and clinking glasses wrapped around us, familiar as a worn quilt.
For a second, she looked around the pub, taking in the dark walnut paneling, the amber glow of the pendant lights, and Savannah’s quick movements behind the bar. She exhaled, and the tension in her neck eased. I could see it in the way the small muscle there finally relaxed.
I hid my smile behind my napkin. This was us.
Same booth. Same table we’d claimed a hundred times before.
And somehow, even after everything, it still felt like coming home.
But underneath that warmth, something else twisted in my chest. I shouldn’t want this so much. I shouldn’t let myself hope so much.
She was still healing from Travis. Still figuring out who she was without him, without the version of herself she’d tried to become for him.
And here I was, sitting across from her like nothing had changed, like I hadn’t spent years trying to convince myself I could live without her in my life.
Every time she smiled, my heart lurched toward her as if it had never learned how to stop wanting to be near her.
I knew better. I knew pushing too hard would scare her off. I knew she needed space, time, safety. And yet every instinct I had screamed to close the distance, to hold on, to tell her she never had to be alone again.
I swallowed it down. Buried it under easy banter and careful distance. Because if I let her see how badly I wanted this, she might run.
“So,” she said, lifting her glass. The ice clinked softly against the sides. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully lured me into your family’s establishment.”
I forced a smile, keeping my voice light. “Felt like a safe place to start.”
She glanced around again, slower this time. The faint scent of frying onions drifted over from the kitchen, mixing with the warm malt smell of the taps. “Your relatives are everywhere.”
“They’re all over town. Impossible to avoid,” I said. “Guess I figured it might feel a little like old times. Familiar. Comforting, maybe?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It is. I’m glad we’re here.”
I leaned back against the booth, the cracked vinyl cool through my shirt.
The warmth of the pub settled around us—low laughter from the bar, the soft scrape of chairs, the occasional pop of the old jukebox kicking on in the corner.
No agenda. No heavy questions. Just food and familiar ground.
Whatever this was going to be, it didn’t need to start serious.
It just needed to start. Even if every second of it felt like walking a tightrope over everything I’d ever wanted and everything I’d ever lost.
Savannah swung back by with our pretzel basket. The woven basket was warm, steam curling up from the golden knots, carrying the sharp tang of salt and butter.
“Okay,” she said with an easy smile. “Ready to order?”
Becca hesitated, gaze flicking down to the laminated menu. The edges were soft and curling from years of greasy fingers. “I don’t know. Everything sounds good, and that always makes it worse.”
Savannah chuckled. “You say that every time.”
I didn’t even look at the menu. I just went for it and ordered for her. “Grilled chicken sandwich,” I answered for her. “No tomato. Extra pickles. Onion rings.”
Becca looked up at me, half exasperated, half amused. “I like to pretend I have range.”
“You do,” I said. “I mean, you have one. One range. Nothing wrong with knowing what you like.”
She nudged my knee under the table. The denim of her jeans brushed mine, a quick, warm pressure that lingered for half a second longer than it needed to. Neither of us moved away.
That small contact sent a jolt through me, and I had to force myself to breathe normally. To remember that this was just… Becca, being Becca. And me trying not to read too much into every accidental touch.
Savannah grinned as she wrote it down. “I could’ve put this order in before you sat down. You two are still terrifyingly predictable.” She turned to me. “And for you, Levi? As if I need to ask.”
“Shepherd’s pie,” Becca blurted. “Add a side of fries. Because there are never enough potatoes for this guy.”
I sighed. “I was going to wait and see how I felt. Maybe order the fries later.”
Becca smiled. “You were absolutely not.”
Savannah laughed softly and tucked her pen away. “I’ll get this started.”
As she walked off, Becca leaned back in the booth, shaking her head. “We are still painfully predictable. She’s right.”
I grinned. “It keeps things simple.”
And the easy moment settled between us again, comfortable, like slipping into the past. But inside, my heart was hammering.
Because simple didn’t mean safe. Simple meant I could pretend that this was just two old friends catching up.
The space Savannah left behind felt quieter somehow, like the booth had drawn in around us once the ordering was done.
Becca wrapped both hands around her glass, rolling one of the cherries with her straw. The ice shifted with a soft clink. “So,” she said. “You always do this, every time we happen to be at the same place at the same time.”
“Do what?”
“Remember things,” she said lightly. “Like I’m a checklist you never stopped carrying around.”
I shrugged. “Some habits stick.”
She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “That’s one way to say it.”
For a few seconds, we just sat there, the low hum of the pub filling in the gaps—the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices, the familiar creak of the floorboards every time someone passed our booth.
The pendant light above us swayed slightly, casting warm, shifting shadows across her face.
It felt easy. Too easy, maybe, considering how careful we’d both been lately.
“You okay?” I asked, softer this time.
She made a face. “Define okay.”
I smiled. “Becca…”
She glanced up at me then, really looked at me, and something in her expression softened. “I don’t hate this,” she admitted. “Us. Sitting here. Not pretending we don’t know each other as well as we do, I mean, did. I don’t know what I mean—”
“Hey, it’s okay. I don’t hate it either,” I said.
Her mouth curved, just a little. “That might be the most honest thing we’ve said in a long time.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I’m very honest.”
“Mm-hmm.” She nudged my foot under the table, familiar as breathing. “You’re selectively honest depending on timing, and I’m a hot mess.”
I laughed, and she did too, the sound easing something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding tight.
It felt like finding an old rhythm, one we’d set down carefully years ago, not broken, just waiting for us to pick it up again.
For the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about what had gone wrong.
I was thinking about how good it felt to sit across from her and remember what had once gone right.
Savannah reappeared, sliding plates onto the table with practiced ease.
“Shepherd’s pie,” she said, setting it in front of me. “With extra fries.” Steam curled up, carrying the rich scent of beef and gravy. She turned to Becca. “And grilled chicken. No tomato. Extra pickles.”
Becca blinked at her plate, then let out a small laugh as she looked at me. “I swear I consider ordering something else every single time.”
“And every single time, you don’t, do you?” I said.
She shook her head, cheeks warming. “Rude. Accurate, but rude.”
Savannah grinned fondly. “Let me know if you need anything,” she added, then disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving us laughing.
Steam curled up from the plates, the smell rich and familiar—savory gravy, hot fries, the faint tang of pickles. Becca picked up a fry and inspected it like she was considering its moral character.
“I knew you were going to steal those,” I said.
She didn’t even look at me as she bit into the fry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I slid my plate a fraction closer to her. “I’ve accepted my fate.”
That got a real laugh out of her, the kind that tipped her head back slightly. “See? Growth.” She slid her plate to the middle of the table without being asked. “And you know I’ll always share my onion rings with you. That’s just basic fairness.”
We ate for a minute, the comfortable quiet settling back in. Becca hummed softly after her first bite, and then, like it had been pulled out of her against her will: “Okay. I’ll never order anything else. I admit it. This is objectively the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks.”
“High praise. I’ll let the kitchen know.”
She smiled and leaned back in the booth, her shoulders easing by degrees. “This feels familiar.”
“Like old times.”
“Yeah.” Something soft moved through her expression. “Like that.” She turned her fork over in her hand. “Thanks. For this. For not making it weird.”
“We were good at not making things weird,” I said, keeping my voice easy even though it mattered more than I wanted to admit. “Once upon a time.”
“Yeah,” she said. “We were.”
The conversation found its old current after that, drifting the way it used to when we were young—easy, unforced, hopping from one thing to the next without either of us having to work at it.
She told me about a job lead that hadn’t worked out, rolling her eyes like she was already tired of being disappointed by it, and I listened without trying to fix anything, which took more effort than she probably knew.