Chapter 2 #2
“The scarecrow puking up pumpkin guts,” Rachel adds.
I wince. “Really hoping that wouldn’t be the thing I’m remembered for.”
They laugh, and I look back at Jenna, curious. Her brows are knit, her head tilted slightly, like she’s trying to line up two images that don’t make sense.
“Oliver… Jacobson,” she repeats slowly.
Her eyes travel over my face, lingering on my jaw, my mouth, my eyes.
I can almost see the gears turning. I wait but nothing comes.
Just confusion and a faint spark of recognition that never fully catches.
It should sting, but it doesn’t. Instead, something intriguing curls in my chest. I get to watch her rediscover me, piece by piece.
“It’s okay,” I say, saving her from the mental gymnastics. “We had a few classes together. I always sat behind you.”
Her eyes widen a fraction, and I see it, the sharp little flicker of oh.
“You were…” She hesitates, clearly trying to phrase it kindly. “Taller. Skinnier.”
“Had braces,” I add.
“And black glasses,” Paige chimes in. “With tape on the side.”
“Don’t forget the acne,” Marcus throws in helpfully.
I swing my arms open as if presenting myself. “A truly iconic era of my life.”
Jenna’s mouth curves, a laugh slipping out. “Okay, now I remember you. Wow. You look… different.”
I arch a brow. “Different good or different bad?”
Her gaze skims down my body, over the fitted tee, the jeans, the tattoos curling down my arms. When her eyes meet mine again, they’re darker, more intense. And my chest puffs a little from her appreciative inspection.
“Definitely good,” she says, almost under her breath. Heat shoots straight through me.
“Some of us peaked after high school,” I joke, mostly to keep from saying something else.
Her smile falters for a second, that fragile look from the other day at my shop returning. “Yeah. Some of us did.”
Paige claps her hands together. “Alright, nostalgia hour’s over. Who’s getting the next round?”
We migrate toward the pool tables, our little group expanding to make room. It feels weirdly easy, falling back into a rhythm with people I mostly knew as background characters in my teenage years.
I show Marcus the shot he’s lining up is trash and lean in to adjust his cue. Rachel heckles me from the sidelines. Macy and Kyle start some heated debate about which local brewery makes the best IPA.
But, out of the corner of my eye, I keep track of Jenna. I couldn’t take my eyes off her if I wanted to.
At first, she’s right in the mix, laughing, sipping from a bright-pink cocktail, her cheeks flushed. But as the night wears on and the drinks keep coming, she drifts a little. Her smiles take a beat longer to show up. Her gaze goes unfocused when she thinks no one’s looking.
But I’m looking. I’m always looking.
She wanders over eventually, swaying just a little as she comes to stand at my side.
“Hey,” she says, drawing out the word. “You’re the chocolate guy.”
I bite back a smile. “Still am, last time I checked.”
She leans in a fraction, close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm. She smells like citrus now too—probably from her drink—layered over the green apple and something sweet that’s just her.
“You know what’s funny?” she says, her words a little looser around the edges. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life. Thought I knew everybody.”
“World’s full of surprises,” I say.
She tips her head back to look up at me, her eyes slightly glassy. “You’re very… tall now.”
I chuckle. “I was tall then too, Jenna.”
Her brows pinch. “Yeah, but now it’s like… on purpose.” Her hand makes a vague gesture from my chest downward that I try very hard not to interpret. “You talk different. And you have this whole…” She waves her hand again, up and down my torso. “Thing.”
I arch a brow. “A thing.”
“Yeah,” she says solemnly. “Like a… hot chocolate daddy thing.”
Marcus, lining up a shot nearby, misses it completely as he chokes on a laugh.
I scratch the scruff along my jawline with a smirk. “Hot chocolate daddy, huh?”
She nods, looking very pleased with herself. “You’re hot. You make chocolate. And you have this…” She squints. “Bossy, take-charge energy. Daddy vibes like the boyfriends in my books.”
If she keeps looking at me with those big hazel eyes while calling me Daddy, I’m going to do something very stupid right here in front of everyone.
Macy appears at her other side, placing a steadying hand on her elbow. “Okay, Jenna,” she says, laughing. “You’re harassing the nice chocolate man.”
“I am not harassing him,” Jenna insists, swaying. “I’m complimenting him.”
“I’ll allow it,” I say with a dopey grin, unable to help myself.
Jenna beams at me, bright and tipsy.
Macy rolls her eyes. “The singles table is right over there, babe. Come keep me company before I die of secondhand embarrassment.”
She gently tugs her friend away. Jenna goes, but not before looking over her shoulder at me, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
I wink and Jenna’s cheeks go pink.
Yeah. I’m enjoying this.
The night drifts on. We play pool as another round of drinks materializes, and the laughter ebbs and flows around us. At some point, I realize Jenna’s gone quiet. Too quiet, and that worries me.
She’s back at the “singles” table, half-turned away from the rest of the group, a nearly empty cocktail glass in front of her. Her shoulders are rounded, her fingers worrying the edge of a paper napkin.
From here, I can see her throat working like she’s swallowing something thick. There’s a shine in her eyes that has nothing to do with the bar lights.
My chest tightens. “I’m gonna sit this one out,” I tell Marcus, handing off my cue.
He follows my gaze, then nods, his expression softening. “Yeah. Go.”
I make my way over, weaving through the crowd until I’m standing beside her table.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “This seat taken?”
Jenna startles, swiping quickly at her wet lashes. “Oh. No. Sorry. I was—” She gestures helplessly with her hand. “Thinking.”
I pull the chair out and sit, bracing my forearms on my thighs. Up close, I can see the faint smudge of mascara under one eye and the way her mouth trembles when she lifts her chin.
“You okay?” I ask.
She lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that. Or is it the third?”
“Maybe I’ll keep asking until I get a real answer.”
Her fingers twist the napkin into shreds. “I’m just… drunk and emotional. You don’t need to worry about it.”
I study her profile, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she won’t quite meet my eyes.
“Maybe I want to.”
She glances at me then, brows pulling together. “Why?”
Because I’ve had a crush on you since we were thirteen.
Because I remember the time you let me borrow your pen in class, and angels descended from Heaven when you smiled at me.
Because I watched you kiss a guy who didn’t deserve you and wanted to smash his face in on principle.
I lift one shoulder. “Because you look like you’re carrying a lot, and it’s not very gentlemanly to just watch you drown in it. Especially not when it’s almost Valentine’s Day.”
She snorts adorably. “Valentine’s Day can kiss my ass.”
“I’ll let the holiday committee know,” I say dryly.
She snorts again, then immediately presses her lips together, like letting herself laugh might break something else loose.
Silence stretches between us for a few seconds. The music shifts to a slower song. Someone near the bar shouts something as glasses clink. Life goes on around us and she slumps in her seat.
“My divorce was finalized a month ago,” she says suddenly, still staring at the napkin. “Everyone keeps telling me I should be happy. Free. Thriving.” She smiles tightly.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” She swallows. “Some days, I’m fine.
I go to work. I watch my murder shows. I remember to eat something green.
Then other days, I wake up and it hits me all over again that I spent ten years of my life loving someone who saw me as…
” The corners of her lips turn down and I hate it.
“Background noise. A convenience. A placeholder until something younger and shinier and prettier came along.”
Anger flares, hot and immediate, tight in my gut. “There’s no one prettier than you, Princess. He’s an idiot.”
She lets out a humorless laugh. “Everyone says that too.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
Her chin wobbles as she blinks back tears. “I keep thinking… Was I that easy to replace? Ten years, Oliver.” She looks at me with glassy eyes. “I gave him my twenties, and he made me a cliché.”
I want to find Bobby Jones and shove my foot so far up his ass he can taste the leather from my boot.
“You were never easy to replace, Jenna. He never deserved you.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
“You don’t even know me,” she whispers.
“I know more than you think.” Curiosity swirls across her face, but I don’t elaborate. “What I know is that you are not background noise. You’re the whole damn song. And he’s tone-deaf.”
Her laugh this time is real, quiet but genuine.
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down her supple cheek.
Before I can think too hard about it, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb.
She leans into the touch, like she’s starved for it.
The trust she shows me in one tiny gesture punches me right in the chest.
“I hate him for hurting you,” I admit, my voice low. “But I’ve always kind of hated him, to be honest. Even back in school. He was all swagger, no substance. Just a bully without brains. The only things he had going for him were looks and sports. Guess that was enough.”
“Wow,” she says softly. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I would, but I’m trying to control my anger in public.”
She sniffs, a half laugh catching on the sound. “You’re supposed to say something generic like ‘it’ll get better’ or ‘time heals all wounds.’”
“Time heals some wounds,” I deadpan, and she giggles. “The rest you fix with chocolate and petty revenge.”