Chapter 11
Ishould have trusted my gut and stayed home.
The restaurant was nice — too nice, maybe. One of those airy, industrial-modern places with vintage filament bulbs and a menu full of words like aioli and locally sourced. The kind of place you don’t go to unless you’re trying to make an impression.
Hell, I’d lived here most of my life, and I’d never been here. Even on my nicest dates, I’d never even attempted this stuffy place.
He was already there when I arrived, standing beside the table like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Ansel Barlowe, ex-blockbuster heartthrob, looking like a man who hadn’t slept in twelve hours or decided on a single emotion.
He smiled when he saw me. Too wide. Too relieved.
I should’ve turned around right then.
But I didn’t. I sat. I took the coffee he’d ordered for me. I smiled, because I wanted to believe this wasn’t a terrible idea.
It was fine at first. Awkward, a little stilted, but fine — maybe even sweet.
We talked about books mostly — safer ground.
He made a joke about the title on display near the register, and I laughed even though it wasn’t that funny.
I asked about the movie, and he said something vague about long hours and being out of shape and learning choreography for the first time in a decade.
He still hadn’t told me what movie he would be in. And I would not be the one to drop the ‘your current role is one of the most important stories to me’ on him while we were on a date.
Was this a date?
Then — God help him — he said it.
“I think it’s kinda perfect,” he said, stirring his drink with a straw like a twelve-year-old. “The whole… bookstore girl meets washed-up actor thing. It’s almost too on the nose. Like something off Netflix. We should sell the rights before it actually happens.”
I blinked. “Before what happens?”
“You know. Before we crash and burn,” he said, laughing a little, like it was obvious. “Or fall in love. Either way, it’s a solid third-act twist.”
My stomach dropped.
“You think this is a bit?” I said, sharper than I meant to.
He paused, eyebrows drawing in. “No, I didn’t mean — I was joking.”
I pushed my chair back a little. “You’re sitting here — after showing up out of nowhere yesterday — after still not remembering to tell me the name of the film you’re shooting, and now you’re joking about optioning our lives like we’re in some tired romcom?”
“Juniper, I didn’t—”
“I’m not a plotline, Ansel,” I snapped, and I hated how my voice shook. “I’m not some meet-cute footnote in the comeback tour of your washed-up career.”
He flinched. Visibly. “Jesus.”
“I should go,” I said, already halfway to standing. “This was a mistake.”
Moments later, I sat behind the wheel of my car, hands pressed to my eyes. I was trying everything I could to keep the tears in. I’d left Ansel at the table without so much as a glance back. But it didn’t matter. All I could see was Joel.
Joel, with his condescension dressed up like concern. Joel, who made me feel small in every room we shared. Joel, who told me — more than once — that I was lucky anyone noticed me at all.
And here I was, again. Falling for the exact same shape of man. Letting myself be a novelty in someone else’s story.
I didn’t drive off right away.
Just sat there, both hands gripping the wheel like I might physically keep myself from unraveling.
God. What the hell was wrong with me?
I wasn’t angry at him — or, okay, I was, but not the way I thought I’d be. I was angry at me. For buying into it. For letting some half-flirty, half-forgotten celebrity walk into my life and knock me off-kilter like I was nineteen again and swooning over an autographed poster.
He’d smiled at me. He’d made a few charming little jokes.
He’d shown up at the bookstore like a scene from a script and I’d let myself want something from it.
From him. I’d let myself believe, just for a second, that maybe the chemistry wasn’t all in my head.
That maybe this was something more than coincidence and Instagram and a napkin that had no business still living in my nightstand drawer.
God. I was so stupid.
Of course he hadn’t told me the name of the film. Of course he’d just assumed I’d be flattered by some casual little “maybe they’ll write about this someday” comment, like my life was some quirky B-plot in his latest comeback project.
And me? Until that moment, I’d sat there grinning like an idiot. Flushed and fluttery and waiting for him to say something meaningful, like he knew what that napkin had meant to me. Like he wasn’t just being polite. Or bored. Or worse — playing the part of the guy he used to be.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stop the hot sting from rising.
This was so humiliating.
How could I have misread everything so badly?
But god — How could there still be a part of me that wanted him to chase after me?
I didn’t go back to work.
I told myself I was going to — I even pulled into the parking lot, stared at the mural on the side of the store like it might reset something in me — but I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face my manager’s knowing looks or the inevitable ‘how’d lunch go?’ with a smile that didn’t crack.
So I drove home. Let myself in. Didn’t bother to take off my shoes, and prayed that my dad was too caught up in his work to realize I was home four hours early.
The silence in the house felt louder than the street traffic outside. I dropped my keys in the bowl and just… stood there. In the middle of the living room. Hands still clenched like I might throw a punch or burst into tears.
God, Joel would love this.
Not Ansel. Joel.
Because why the fuck would I deserve anything better than that? Who was I to think I might have a second chance at this stupid relationship shit?
Because of course I fell for the first man who looked at me like I was interesting.
Of course I let a pretty face and a clever smile and one goddamn napkin undo half a year of progress.
I’d spent so long rebuilding myself — brick by careful brick — and in the space of a few days, I was already cracking at the seams.
Not because of Ansel.
Because I let myself hope again, even for just a minute.
I sat on the floor. Right there by the door, in my coat, in my shoes, like some woman in a sad indie film who didn’t know how to leave the scene.
What was I even thinking? That a guy like that — all scruffy charm and good lighting — was going to sweep me into some second-chance fairytale? That I was worthy of something like that?
I curled my arms around my knees.
Joel used to say I was too sensitive. That I dramatized everything. That I made mountains out of molehills and feelings out of moments.
Maybe he was right.
Because here I was. Crying in my coat. Over a man I’d known for maybe two days — if you counted the convention.
But it wasn’t just him. It was the ache of everything before him. The years of not being seen. The way I still flinched when someone raised their voice. The part of me that still scanned for exits every time I entered a room.
I should have called Dr. Tilly. I felt myself spiraling hard. I hadn’t thought this much about Joel in forever.
And maybe… maybe it was because I didn’t want to like Ansel Barlowe.
But I did.
And it was scary. And I think I hated myself for it.
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep…
I meant to wallow — dramatically and with purpose — under my weighted blanket, in a hoodie that still smelled like laundry detergent and regret. I shut the blinds, turned my phone to silent, and collapsed on my bed like I was starring in a very niche episode of Millennial Meltdowns.
The kind with soft lighting and a lot of internal screaming.
When I woke up, it was dark.
My mouth was dry. My face was hot from sleeping on one side too long. And my phone — traitorous thing — was lit up with notifications.
Five messages.
From Ansel Barlowe.
Because of course he doesn’t have my number, like a normal person. Of course it’s through Instagram, where I’m still tagged in photos from my wedding eight years ago if you scroll down far enough.
My heart started hammering before I even opened the app.
anselbarlowe
Okay. That could’ve gone better.
I’m sorry. I was an idiot.
I don’t want to make you a plot line. I just… like being around you.
I fucked up, kid. I’m so sorry.
I know I don’t deserve it… but please — give me another chance. This just might be this cowboy’s first rodeo.
I stared at the screen. Blinked.
There it was — the stupid little detail that knocked the wind out of me.
That one soft sentence at the end. Like he’d been holding onto it this whole time, waiting for a moment to use it right.
Like he knew it mattered. Or maybe didn’t.
Maybe he was just grasping at straws, trying to make her — me — laugh.
I wasn’t sure whether to cry again or message him back.
So instead, I turned my phone face-down. Let my head fall back on the pillow.
And whispered into the dark, “You absolute dumbass.”
But my chest didn’t ache quite as much as it had before.