3. The Clash
CHAPTER THREE
THE CLASH
Malakai
I thumb my nose as I lean against the exterior wall of the gym. My workout bag is between my boots, and when I see Julian walk out of the gym a few feet away, I take a single, steadying breath.
Julian Ashford.
The one person I never expected to see again.
The one person I never expected to speak to me again—not after what I did.
But that’s neither here nor there, because there’s only one thing from our brief conversation earlier that keeps circling around in my mind.
We just recently moved back from London.
My wife, Sophie, and I.
Wife.
In all the scenarios that played out in my mind, I never imagined Julian would get married to a woman. And I suppose that assumption is on me, because I should’ve known that just because he kissed me didn’t mean he wasn’t attracted to women.
I mean, I enjoyed that kiss seventeen years ago. A fucking lot. But I hadn’t been with a man after him. I enjoyed women and I was sexually aroused by them.
It makes sense that perhaps Julian was the same.
In the last decade, I’d convinced myself I’d made peace with it. Now, I enjoyed the opposite sex and being the one in control—taking the lead, especially when it came to certain… extracurricular activities.
Saint Helena Academy would burst into flames if they knew what I got up to in my free time.
What happened between Julian and me— the kiss , the confusion, the way I left—was just the fumbling curiosity of two teenagers. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself over and over again. We were friends, we were young, and for me, that’s where it ended.
But as Julian walks toward me now—in a crisp white button-up and black trousers that cling a little too well to the muscle he’s clearly built since I last saw him—I’m suddenly questioning how true that really is.
His damp, light blond hair falls messily over his forehead, and I can’t help but glance at him, even though I keep telling myself not to. I take in the sharp cut of his jaw, the scruff that’s grown in over the years, the way he’s filled out.
It’s purely objective.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Just noticing the difference in him, that’s all.
But even as the thought crosses my mind, I can’t help but let my eyes trace the broadness of his shoulders, the way his chest has filled out under the fabric of his shirt. The Julian I knew at eighteen was all limbs and smiles—lanky, easygoing, with a lightness about him that made everything feel simpler.
But the Julian standing in front of me now? He’s all man . Brooding, rough around the edges in a way he never was before, and when his blue eyes meet mine, there’s a weight there I don’t remember. A tension that wasn’t there when we were young.
Something unspoken settles between us, and for a moment, I forget that I was the one who walked away. All I can think about is how much time has passed, and how much has changed—and whether or not I made the right choice all those years ago.
I shake my head as I push off the wall.
Of course I made the right choice to walk away.
The eighteen-year-old who got hard when he kissed his best friend wasn’t me.
I know who I am now.
“Hey,” I say, walking up to him.
“Hi.”
His voice is clipped—polite, but not warm. He stands too straight, like he’s bracing for something, and his grip on the strap of his gym bag is too tight. Back then, he was a bit taller, but now I have maybe an inch on him. It feels… strange to be standing before him after so many years.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” Julian says, face unsmiling. “Do you know of a place?”
So we can get this over with…
He doesn’t say it, but all those years learning his nuances clue me into how he’s really feeling about all of this.
“Yeah. Let me just drop my bag in my car and we can walk over. It’s just down the street.”
We walk through the parking lot, and Julian seems distracted. He points a key fob at a black Range Rover parked three spaces away from mine, so I walk to my white Audi Q6 and set the bag in the trunk. When I lock my car, Julian is standing a few feet away as he texts someone on his phone.
Crossing my arms, I wait until he finishes. It’s a beautiful day out—clear, warm but not too hot, with just a whisper of wind from the ocean. A small part of me regrets not going on the hike Stella invited me on this morning, but I’d wanted to get a full-body workout in.
Joke’s on me, I guess.
“Sorry,” Julian mumbles, pocketing his phone. “It’s work.”
We walk toward the main road in one of the more suburban parts of Crestwood. The coffee shop down the road is decent, albeit usually very crowded. It’s not the first place I’d choose to catch up with my ex-best friend, but it’s better than nothing.
“And what is it that you do for work?” I ask.
I’d somehow resisted googling Julian for all of these years, so I have no idea how he occupies his time now.
“I’m an art consultant.”
We begin walking down the street. Julian walks a step ahead of me—not by much, but enough to notice. He’s always been like that. If he can’t control the situation, he’ll control the pace. I don’t call him out on it, but I let him have it.
“Really? That sounds cool. What does it entail?”
He shrugs. “Most people have no idea what kind of art they want in their homes. I’m the person they come to when they want to invest, but they don’t know what they want. I match them with meaningful pieces, and we go from there.”
He rattles off the details too fast, like he’s reading from a brochure. I watch the way his eyes flick to the ground—calculated, as if keeping his gaze there will stop me from seeing whatever’s hiding behind his words.
“How’d you get into that?”
“I’ve always had a passion for art, and after graduating with an art degree, I decided to channel my energy into helping others find investment pieces for their home.”
It sounds like he’s answering interview questions.
Which means he’s probably not super comfortable being around me.
Should I apologize? For the kiss, and for walking away?
I’m quiet for several seconds, trying to place this version of Julian. I never even knew he liked art—it must’ve been something he picked up after going back to England.
“Do you have a favorite artist?” I ask.
Julian laughs and looks away. “You haven’t changed.”
I stop walking—we’re standing in front of the coffee shop anyway—and cock my head.
“How so?”
“You were always so curious about other people. Notice how you haven’t offered me anything about your life?”
My lips twitch with a hint of a smile. “Well, what do you want to know?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. I rub my mouth with my hand, and his eyes catch on my tattoo.
I can hear the question before he even asks.
“That tattoo…” he says slowly. “I noticed it earlier. You could start there.”
“Let’s get coffee first.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but he follows me inside the small café. It’s crowded, so we wait in line as Julian takes in his surroundings.
“Much different than London,” I muse, as we creep forward in the long line.
“Very.”
I don’t say anything in response. A minute later, we place our order, and I pull out my card to pay before he has a chance to.
“Thanks,” he says, blue eyes boring into mine.
“Welcome.”
Once my coffee and Julian’s tea is ready, we walk to one of the only free tables in the back.
As we sit down, I sip my coffee and look up at my old friend. “So, how’d you and Sophie meet?”
His face completely relaxes, but he doesn’t smile. She’s special to him, that much I can tell. I can see the love in his soft expression.
“In university. We were both in an art program at Oxford, though she was a first year and I was a graduate student. It was love at first sight.”
“I’m really happy for you,” I tell him.
“Thanks. And you?” he asks, looking at me warily. “Married? Kids?”
Not quite.
“I’m the headmaster at Saint Helena Academy. Before that, I was a pastor.” I hold my hand up. “Hence the tattoo,” I say, showcasing the cross on my left middle finger.
Julian’s brow lifts, but the corners of his mouth tug down. It’s subtle, but it’s there—that flash of something tense.
“Huh,” he says, tapping his fingers once against his mug. “Didn’t see you in that role.”
Neither did I, but the way he says it makes me wonder if he expected me to stay the same.
My eyes trace the lines of his face, the way his fingers rest on the table. Then he looks away, fiddling with his wedding band.
“What’s Sophie like?”
“She’s… kind. Strong. She has a big heart.”
Julian says it without hesitation, but there’s something guarded in the way the words land—like he’s holding back the rest, keeping the best parts of her for himself.
I nod. “She sounds wonderful. Good for you, Julian.”
He shifts in his seat, not really meeting my gaze. “Yeah. I got lucky.”
The silence stretches, but I press on, trying to reconnect. “So, do you two travel much? I remember you always talked about going places. Spain, wasn’t it?”
His hand stops moving. “We went to Spain for our honeymoon.”
“Nice. How was it?” I ask, smiling, though I notice the way his jaw tightens.
“It was fine,” he replies, too curtly for something that should’ve been a happy memory.
I can feel something shifting, like I’ve touched a nerve, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“It’s nice to catch up,” I tell him honestly.
His eyes flash with something—frustration, maybe. “Nice.” The word falls from his lips like it’s sharp.
There’s a chill in the air now, but I keep going, my smile faltering. “So what does Sophie do for work?”
The muscle in his jaw flexes the longer we sit there. His fingers drum once, twice, then stop abruptly, as if catching himself. I can feel the weight pressing down on the table between us, the unsaid things stretching wider by the second.
I know that look. It’s the same one he had the night he kissed me. Right before he pretended like it hadn’t happened.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says abruptly, cutting me off as he stands up.
I blink, taken aback. “Julian, I wasn’t trying to?—”
“You think you can just come back after all this time, ask a few questions, and everything will go back to how it was.”
“I wasn’t?—”
But he’s already walking away, his voice tight with anger. “I should go.”
I watch him leave, still trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong.
“Hey!” I call out, chasing after him. “Did I say something to offend you?” I ask as I catch up with Julian a few doors down.
Julian stops walking and turns to face me. “You’re exactly the same. Asking questions to put me at ease, but instead it feels like a smooth interrogation. You always were so good at manipulating the situation.”
I narrow my eyes. “I was asking a question to be nice. To see what you’ve been up to for the last seventeen years.” My tone is harsher than I anticipate, and Julian’s eyes widen just a fraction.
“Well, now you know all about my life, and like always, I know next to nothing about yours. Which is fine, I suppose, because I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to forget about you.”
He storms off before I can fully comprehend his words.
I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to forget about you.
I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to forget about you.
I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to forget about you.
It hits me as I stand there, watching him disappear down the street. I spent years convincing myself that walking away was the right thing to do. That Julian was better off without me and whatever confusion we felt that night. But maybe… maybe I wasn’t the only one confused.
I walk down the street until I get to the parking lot for the gym, but his Range Rover is already gone by the time I get to where he was parked.
Fuck.
My heart sinks as I lean against my car, rubbing my face as if that’ll somehow erase the last ten minutes. I thought seventeen years was enough time to bury one kiss. But the way Julian looked at me today, like he’s still holding on to something he doesn’t want to name, makes me wonder if I ever really let go either.
I have to fix this.
I have to apologize.
But for what?