Chapter Two
Cracks in the Picture
Sarah
Present
It’s been a year since I stood in that ballroom and watched him promise forever to someone else, and I can still feel the way he looked at me across the room.
The champagne glass in my hand had gone warm, the stem slick against my fingers, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not when Jace turned his head just enough for our eyes to catch. One second in a crowded room, and I forgot how to breathe.
He was in a tux, standing at the altar only hours earlier, promising forever to someone else. But the way his gaze clung to mine during the reception told a different story. A story we weren’t allowed to have.
Every detail from that night is burned into me, the gold shimmer of the chandeliers, the way his new wife smiled up at him, the ache in my chest so sharp I thought I’d splinter apart.
But it’s the in-between moments that haunt me most. The way he brushed past me on the dance floor, his hand grazing mine like it was an accident.
The way his mouth tightened when another man asked me to dance.
The way his eyes softened, just once, like he wanted to apologize for breaking both of us.
I told myself it was closure. That watching him marry Sierra would be the final nail in whatever was left between us. But I’ve been lying to myself for a year. A whole fucking year.
I sip burnt coffee from a chipped mug at my kitchen counter, scrolling through emails like it matters, like work can fill the holes he left. The house is quiet and the sunlight coming through the blinds doesn’t reach the parts of me that stayed in that ballroom.
On the surface, I’m fine. I go to work. I meet friends for drinks.
I go on dates and even let men buy me dinner.
But every one of them feels like a cheap knockoff compared to him.
Their hands don’t feel the same. Their voices don’t hit me in the chest the way his does.
I smile when I’m supposed to, laugh at jokes that barely land, and then I go home and replay a single look from a year ago until I’m raw.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But the truth is, I haven’t moved on.
Last week, I tried, again. Miller, a guy from work asked me out, and I said yes because that’s what normal people do.
We went to a little Italian place, candles flickering on the table between us.
He was sweet. He was safe. And the whole time, all I could think was that he wasn’t Jace.
He didn’t have Jace’s crooked grin. He didn’t have the rough, steady voice that could unravel me in a single word.
He didn’t make my pulse skip just by walking into a room.
I came home, shut the door, and cried like an idiot into my pillow. Because it’s been a year, and I’m still his even though he’s not mine.
My phone buzzes against the counter, dragging me out of the spiral. It’s Ellie, my oldest friend, sending me a string of texts I almost ignore.
Ellie: Did you hear?
Ellie: About Jace and Sierra?
My stomach twists before I even finish reading.
Me: No. What about them?
The dots dance like she’s deciding how much to say. Then it comes.
Ellie: People are talking. Speculation is… they’re getting divorced.
I stare at the screen, my pulse hammering. My first instinct is denial, because Jace doesn’t belong to me, and it shouldn’t matter. But it does. The words settle in my chest, heavy and dangerous.
Are they getting divorced?
I close my laptop, shove the phone face-down, and press my palms to the counter like I can hold myself steady. It doesn’t work. The ghosts of the wedding have followed me for a year, and now they’re knocking louder.
I tell myself to ignore Ellie’s texts. To put my phone away, pour another cup of coffee, and move on with my day like a normal person. But hours later, I’m still thinking about it.
Are they getting divorced?
The words echo every time I try to focus on work, when I’m answering emails, even when I’m on the phone with a client. I catch myself rereading them at red lights, thumb hovering over my screen like I’m waiting for Ellie to say more. She doesn’t. She doesn’t need to.
Because now I can’t stop picturing it. The cracks are forming. The perfect, glossy image of Jace and Sierra starting to splinter.
I don’t want to care. God, I don’t. But the rush of jealousy that cuts through me every time her name has come up this past year is enough to make me nauseous.
At lunch, Ellie’s sitting across from me, scrolling absently through her phone while I pick at my sandwich. She shifts suddenly, angling the screen away like she doesn’t want me to see.
“What?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Nothing.” She forces a smile, but her thumb hovers like she’s debating whether to hide it or hand it over.
I reach across the table and snag her phone before she can stop me. A new message from Emma flashes at the top.
Emma: Did you hear? Sierra showed up at that event alone last weekend. No Jace in sight.
My stomach twists. I read it again, the words blurring even though they’re perfectly clear.
Ellie must’ve typed fast, because the next message in the thread is hers.
Ellie: Maybe he had to work.
Another buzz lights up the screen almost instantly.
Emma: Or maybe the divorce rumors are true.
I stab at my salad, pretending I didn’t just read it, but the words burn under my skin. I hate how badly I want them to be true.
Because if Jace’s marriage is falling apart, what does that mean?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet my chest tightens like it means everything.
The truth is, I thought him marrying Sierra would be the end of it for me. I thought watching him stand at the altar, hearing him say vows to another woman, would burn out the last of what I felt. But it didn’t. If anything, it branded me.
Spending this last year trying to cauterize the wound that won’t heal has been exhausting. And maybe that’s because I’ve known, deep down, that I never stopped loving him.
The realization hits me harder than it should. But it’s not new, it’s just that I can finally admit it.
I think back to the first time I knew, really knew, what he meant to me.
We were at the end of our sophomore year of college.
I’d been dating someone else, a safe choice, someone who smiled at my parents and opened doors but never once made my pulse skip.
Jace showed up to one of our group nights, leaned against the bar with that half-grin that said he was already in on the joke.
He didn’t even say much. He only had to look at me, and I felt it everywhere.
But when my boyfriend reached for my hand, I felt nothing.
Then later, when Jace brushed his fingers across my back as he passed, I felt everything.
I went home that night and lay awake, restless, the ghost of his touch humming under my skin. That’s when I knew. I was his. Even if I’d never say it out loud.
And now here I am, years later, still haunted by the same truth.
I try to shake it off, focus on the real world instead of the one I keep building in my head. But the universe doesn’t let me off that easily.
Because when I walk into The Bar that night, he’s there.
Just leaning against the edge of a pool table with a half-empty beer in his hand, staring down at it like it might have the answers. The overhead light catches the tired set of his shoulders, the crease in his brow, the way his jaw works like he’s chewing on something he can’t spit out.
He looks older than he did a year ago. Worn in a way I don’t remember.
My chest tightens, because I shouldn’t care. I also shouldn’t notice. But I do.
He hasn’t seen me yet. For one selfish second, I just watch him, broad shoulders hunched in a plain T-shirt, the curve of his mouth pulled down instead of up like the man I know. The man who used to smile at me like I was his whole world looks like he hasn’t smiled in months.
My pulse stumbles. My grip on my bag tightens.
And no matter how hard I try, I can’t unlearn the way he unravels me.
I should’ve walked back out. Pretended I didn’t see him, gone home, poured myself a glass of wine, and convinced myself it was better this way.
But I didn’t. My feet betray me, carrying me deeper into The Bar until the music dulls and all I can feel is the pull of his presence across the room.
He looks up. His eyes lock on mine like no time has passed at all.
“Sarah.”
Just my name. Rough. Low. It scrapes over me like sandpaper and silk all at once.
I freeze. Every part of me wants to look away, pretend I didn’t hear him, but my body doesn’t listen. My gaze drags back to his, and suddenly the noise of The Bar fades into a low hum behind us.
He crosses the space between us in a few long strides. Up close, the shadows under his eyes are deeper, his jaw sharper from the grind of holding himself together. He smells faintly of soap and beer, clean but tired, like a man who hasn’t slept in days.
“Coach,” I manage, the word stiff on my tongue. I force my hand tighter around the strap of my bag so he won’t see it shake.
His mouth tips, but it’s not quite a smile. “That’s new.”
“You earned it.” My tone is lighter than I feel. “Bowl invite’s no small deal.”
“Offense finally showed up.” His voice is even, but there’s no pride in it, none of the spark I remember. Just flat, like he’s reciting stats.
Silence settles between us. But it’s not that comfortable feel we used to have. It’s heavy and drags at me, pulling me back to every moment I swore I’d forget.
“You look good, Sarah.”
I hate that my breath catches. “That supposed to be small talk?”
He shakes his head back and forth slightly, “Just the truth.”
The weight of it lands between us, raw, too familiar.
I shift my bag higher on my shoulder, searching for something casual to say, but every word that comes to mind tastes wrong. Every word that comes to mind feels sharp where it shouldn’t, soft where it matters, and dangerously close to the truth.
“You here with your crew?” I ask finally.