Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Knox
The road to Roanoke stretches out like it’s got something to prove—long, winding, and just smug enough to give a guy too much time alone with his thoughts.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel and glance at the clock on the dash for the fifth time in three minutes.
I’m early, which is no surprise. I’ve never been late to anything in my life, but tonight I’ve outdone myself.
I’m already halfway there and somehow still convinced I’ll screw this up.
Out loud, to no one but the empty cab, I mutter, “It’s just dinner.”
Right. Just dinner. With the woman I’ve spent the last six years trying not to think about—and failing. The woman who left and took every plan I had for the future right along with her.
My hands tighten around the wheel.
I need to say something tonight. Not just smile like nothing happened. Not just small talk and safe jokes and “how’ve you been?” crap.
She deserves the truth.
I glance down at the button-up shirt I ironed—yes, ironed—and the clean jeans I only break out for church, holidays, and, apparently, emotionally loaded reunions with exes.
I even put on cologne. Nothing heavy, just the one that my mom gave me last Christmas that smells like cedar and confidence and a man who’s got his act together.
Maybe I over did it, dressing nicely. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe she won’t notice. But something about tonight felt like it mattered.
I rehearse it out loud, because keeping it in my head only turns it into a mess of “uhs” and emotional traffic jams.
“Brynn…when you left, I didn’t know how to breathe.” Nope. Too dramatic. I sound like a rejected boy band member.
“Look, I was angry. Still am, sometimes. But I never stopped—” Jesus. I can’t even say it to the windshield without my voice catching.
I take a deep breath, slow it down, try again.
“I missed you. Every day. Even when I didn’t want to. And now you’re back, and I don’t know what this is, or if it’s anything at all, but I’d like to find out.”
Better. Real. Still makes my palms sweat.
I laugh under my breath. It’s a weird feeling—this blend of hope and dread, like walking a tightrope over a canyon filled with everything I never got the chance to say. And yeah, maybe I’m scared. But it’s the kind of scared that comes from giving a damn.
This isn’t about chasing ghosts. It’s about saying what I should’ve said the day she walked out of my life—back when I was too proud, too stubborn, too hurt to stop her.
The diner sign appears in the distance, neon flickering against the afternoon sky like it’s trying to warm up to the idea of romance.
I slow down and pull into the lot, heart thudding in a rhythm that doesn’t match the country song on the radio. I sit there for a second, engine idling, hands gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping me tethered.
And I laugh again, quiet and a little bitter.
I’ve played in front of packed stadiums. I’ve been in fights, in locker rooms full of blood and bruises and boys looking to me to lead.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the nerves of walking into a damn diner to see the girl who tore me wide open and still somehow owns half my chest.
I kill the engine and sit still for one more breath. One more second to remind myself that I’m not the boy she left behind. I’ve changed. Grown. Hurt. Healed. And I want her to see that. I want her to know that I’m not afraid to try again—not with her.
I step out of the truck and head for the door.
Time to say what matters.
The diner’s busier than I expected, and the waitress already topped off my water twice like she knows I’m stalling for someone.
I’ve been pretending to read the menu for ten minutes, even though I could probably recite the damn thing by heart.
My shirt collar feels too tight, and I keep adjusting it like that’ll somehow fix the knots in my stomach.
I spot my reflection in the dark window across from me.
I don’t look like the guy I was six years ago.
Broader, maybe. A little more weathered around the eyes.
A man who’s coached his way through heartbreak and Friday night lights, who’s carried the weight of a town’s expectations and still found a way to show up.
I don’t know if that’s the man she’s expecting to see.
Hell, I don’t know what she’s expecting at all.
The bell over the door jingles.
And that’s it.
I look up, and the whole damn world tilts on its axis.
There she is. Wearing a purple dress that hugs her like it was stitched with nothing but bad intentions and a prayer.
Her signature heels click against the linoleum.
She walks in like she never left my heart fractured and bleeding on the floor of my old apartment.
Like she’s always belonged exactly here, in this diner light, golden and unreal.
My breath catches, and I feel it in my chest like a punch and a promise. Because she also looks like my future.
She hasn’t seen me yet. She pauses just inside the door, looking around, scanning the tables. Her hair’s pinned half-up, curls soft at her shoulders, and her lips curve into a nervous smile when her eyes land on me.
And that smile—it wrecks me. It’s not just beautiful, it’s familiar in a way that breaks and rebuilds me all at once. Like coming home and finding everything still in place. Like time folded itself in half just to give me this moment.
All the rehearsed lines fall out of my head. Every worry, every plan, every version of how this might go—it all disappears under the weight of that single look.
She’s not the girl I said goodbye to on a sad Wednesday night. She’s a woman now. Stronger confidence. Softer features, sharper gaze. There’s a grace to her that wasn’t there before, and it hits me all at once. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her now.
I stand, because it feels wrong to stay seated when something holy just walked into the room.
She walks toward me, and my heart’s pounding in a way that feels damn near teenage.
I barely stop myself from stepping around the table and pulling her into my arms. Not yet.
I can’t risk spooking her. But it takes everything I’ve got not to touch her, not to tell her right then and there how impossible she made it to move on.
When she reaches the table, I manage a half smile, trying to look calm. I know I don’t. I probably look like someone just handed me a miracle and dared me to believe it was real.
“Hey,” she says softly, and I swear the sound of her voice settles something in me that’s been restless for years.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice low, rough with everything I’m still afraid to say.
She slides into the booth across from me, crossing her legs, and I catch a glimpse of those familiar heels beneath the table. The same kind she used to wear when she’d tease me about being too much of a sucker for long legs and confident women.
She has no idea. No idea that I’ve been a man holding his breath since the moment she left—and now I’m finally exhaling.
I pick up the menu again, even though I still have no clue what I’m ordering. Doesn’t matter.
She’s here.