Chapter 18
Lisa
“So things have been going well?” Anna asks over the phone, and though she can’t see me, I nod.
“They have,” I reply. “How are things with you and Jason?”
Anna told me about him a couple of weeks ago, and they have been dating since.
“Really great,” she sighs. “I’m not bringing him to Chicago yet when I visit, but he is getting close,” she laughs.
“Whoa, big words,” I tease her.
“I have to go, meeting some friends at a pub, but I’ll call you tomorrow, ok?” Anna asks.
“Sounds good. Have fun,” I smile before we hang up.
I place my phone on the kitchen counter, and it immediately buzzes.
Blake texting me on a random Monday night should not feel like something important is happening.
Somehow, the moment my phone lights up with his name while I am standing barefoot in Zane’s kitchen pretending I am reorganizing drawers that were already perfectly organized two days ago, I feel that quiet, immediate warmth spread through my chest before I even open the message.
It’s like my body recognizes him before my brain has time to catch up.
BLAKE: Drinks?
There is something about the simplicity of the message that makes me smile right away. Blake never turns invitations into performances, expectations, or plans that feel heavier than they need to be. He just asks as he trusts I’ll understand what he means underneath the word.
ME: That depends.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
BLAKE: On?
ME: Whether this is a date.
The pause that follows is long enough that I can picture him reading the message with that small sideways smile he gets when he’s pretending not to be pleased with himself.
BLAKE: Always.
I don’t even try to pretend I’m thinking about it.
ME: Give me twenty minutes.
The bar he takes me to is quieter than I expect, even for a Monday night.
The place is tucked into a corner between two older buildings with tall windows and warm amber lighting that make everything feel softer, closer, and calmer the moment we step inside.
I realize almost immediately that he chose it deliberately, just as he chose the live-music place last time.
He’s paying attention to what makes me relax, even when I haven’t said it out loud.
“You look suspiciously pleased with yourself,” I tell him. He pulls out my chair as if it’s something he does without thinking, rather than something he's doing on purpose.
“That’s because you said yes in under thirty seconds,” he replies easily.
“That’s because you didn’t give me time to pretend I have better things to do.”
“You don’t,” he says.
“That’s very confident.”
“I’m learning,” he answers. Smiling in a way that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s joking or completely serious.
We settle into conversation almost immediately.
The kind of conversation that doesn’t feel like catching up or impressing each other.
It’s the kind that continues something we already started days ago and simply never stopped.
Somewhere between arguing about whether his fern is judging me personally and him telling me a story about how he and Zane met during a summer camp tournament where neither of them expected to stay friends beyond the weekend, I realize I’ve stopped checking the door every few minutes the way I used to when I first came back to Chicago.
Which is exactly why I don’t see James right away.
And when I do notice him, it isn’t gradual or subtle or something I can prepare for.
It’s immediate. Sharp. Unavoidable. He’s standing near the bar and watching me. Smiling like he already knows this moment belongs to him.
My stomach drops so quickly it almost makes me dizzy. Blake notices before I say anything.
“What happened?” he coaxes. His voice shifts in that way it does when he stops being playful and starts paying attention.
I don’t answer. I can’t because James is already walking toward us.
“Well,” he says when he reaches our table, his voice smooth and controlled, just as it always used to be when he wanted to sound calm enough to make me doubt my own reactions, “this is unexpected.”
Blake doesn’t stand immediately. Doesn’t react suddenly. Doesn’t look surprised. He just lifts his head slowly.
“Perth.”
“Saxon.”
The way they say each other’s names sounds less like recognition and more like something unfinished.
James’s attention shifts back to me like Blake isn’t even there.
“I didn’t realize you’d downgraded,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on a change in the weather instead of deliberately trying to humiliate me in public.
Something inside my chest tightens so sharply it almost feels physical.
Before I can respond, Blake stands. Slowly. Deliberately.
“You should leave,” he says.
James laughs like that’s entertaining.
“I’m talking to her.”
“No,” Blake replies evenly. “You’re not.”
James looks between us with open amusement, like this entire situation exists purely for his entertainment.
“I always wondered what you’d go for after me,” he continues, still looking directly at me. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
And something inside me goes cold. Not embarrassed. Not angry. Cold. Because this is exactly how he used to talk to me when he wanted control back.
That’s when Blake punches him. The sound isn’t as dramatic as it is in movies. It’s sharp.
James stumbles backward into another table, knocking glasses to the floor as people stand too quickly.
I’m unsure what is happening, and suddenly the entire bar shifts.
The situation goes from quiet conversation to overlapping voices, movement, and confusion as chairs scrape across the floor and someone shouts for security.
“Blake…” I start, but before I can finish, someone collides with me from the side as they try to move out of the way. My shoulder slams hard into the corner of a chair in a way that sends a sharp burst of pain down my arm, so suddenly I lose my breath.
For a second, everything goes blurry. The noise gets louder. Someone swears. Someone else laughs nervously. Security starts moving through the crowd. And then Blake is beside me again.
“Lisa,” he says immediately. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though my shoulder is already throbbing hard enough that I can feel it in my neck.
He doesn’t believe me.
“Come on,” he says quietly, already guiding me toward the door like the rest of the room stopped existing the second he saw me get hit.
The cold air outside feels like stepping into a different world entirely. The adrenaline that carried me through the last few minutes disappears almost instantly the moment we reach the sidewalk. It leaves behind something heavier and shakier that I can’t hold together the way I thought I could.
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.
“For what?” Blake asks.
“For him. For that. For dragging you into it.”
“None of that is your fault,” he says immediately.
“You didn’t have to punch him.”
“Yes,” he replies quietly. “I did.”
“What about your career? Your job?” I ask, panicking.
“Don’t worry,” Blake says. He says it like it’s simple. It doesn’t feel simple.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until we reach his car. And I don’t realize I’m crying until I try to open the passenger door and my hands don’t cooperate.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“I’m fine,” I try again.
“You’re not,” he answers gently.
And this time, I can’t pretend anymore.
He doesn’t ask questions while he drives. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to fix anything immediately. He just brings me back to his apartment like it’s the most natural place in the world for me to be.
The moment the door closes behind us, everything I’ve been holding together since James walked toward our table breaks at once.
“I hate that he can still do this,” I whisper.
“Do what?” Blake asks.
“Make me feel like I’m still there,” I say, my voice shaking despite how hard I’m trying to keep it steady. “Like I never actually left. Like he still gets to decide whether I’m confident or small or embarrassed or ok.”
Blake steps closer slowly.
“He doesn’t get to do that anymore,” he says quietly.
“He already did,” I answer
“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”
His hand comes up carefully to my shoulder. He’s avoiding the place that still hurts, and the gentleness of the gesture makes the tears come harder instead of slower.
“I don’t want him anywhere near you,” he says.
Something in his voice changes when he says it. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something steadier than that.
“I want you safe,” he continues.
My throat tightens.
“I want you ok?” he says again, softer now.
And then, after a pause…
“I want to be the person who makes sure he never gets to hurt you like that again.”
I cry even harder now. No one has ever said something like that to me. Not like this, like it was a promise instead of a condition.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he adds quietly.
And for the first time since I came back to Chicago, I believe him completely.
So I step closer without thinking. And this time, when he wraps his arms around me, I don’t hesitate at all.