Chapter Four
Not Just a Memory
Sarah
The Brew House is louder than I expected for a Tuesday morning. The espresso machine hisses, baristas call out names too quickly to catch, and the low murmur of students cramming before class hums in the background. I tell myself I’ll be in and out in five minutes—just a coffee, no lingering.
The line inches forward, and I dig for my card, keeping my head down.
I focus on the scuffed tile beneath my boots, on the crooked corkboard near the door with flyers for tutoring sessions, open mic night, and a missing tabby cat.
The Brew House always had this chaos—loud and lived in, never polished—but today it feels like a spotlight.
I keep my shoulders rounded, telling myself no one is looking, that I’m invisible if I want to be. But my pulse doesn’t buy it.
I’ve gotten good at slipping through spaces without being noticed, at pretending I don’t see the reminders of him scattered everywhere. Moving back for work was supposed to give me a clean slate. Instead, the town feels smaller than ever, every corner echoing with something I’d rather forget.
Because there he is.
Sitting at a corner table, a laptop open in front of him, film notes spread out across the surface like he owns the place.
The table itself is classic Jace territory, half-claimed like it’s his by right.
His jacket is draped over the back of the chair, a spiral notebook flipped open with margins full of cramped handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
He taps a pen against the edge of the page, restless even while sitting still. That little habit hasn’t changed.
His head is bent, brows drawn in concentration, but I’d know that profile anywhere. Strong jaw, hair a little too long at the back, shoulders filling out the plain gray quarter-zip he’s wearing.
For one stupid second, my breath catches. My first instinct is to pivot, to grab my drink and bolt before he looks up. But the barista calls a name that isn’t mine, and my feet stay planted like they’ve forgotten how to move.
And then he glances up.
Our eyes lock, and the rest of the noise fades out. Just like that, the hum of conversation, the hiss of steam, the shuffle of feet… gone. It’s just him, staring at me like I’ve walked straight out of a memory he shouldn’t have kept.
I should look away but I don’t.
“Sarah.” His voice cuts through the space between us, low but steady.
I swallow hard, forcing a smile that feels too thin. “Coach Prescott.”
His mouth twitches like he hears the edge in my voice. “Really? We’re still doing this?”
I shrug, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “Seems safer than… other options.”
A flicker of something, amusement? Hurt maybe, passes through his eyes before he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms like he’s settling in. “Still ordering the caramel latte?”
I hate how my stomach flips at the question. He makes it sound easy, like remembering something small about me is no big deal. Like he doesn’t realize it’s been years since I lived here and moved back for work. That one detail lands sharper than anything else he could’ve said.
The question punches harder than it should. “You remember that?”
“Some things stick,” he says simply.
My name gets called from the counter, and I should take the out. Grab the cup, keep walking, pretend this never happened. Instead, I snag the caramel latte, the heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, and my feet betray me again, carrying me closer to his table instead of the door.
“You always did hog the quiet corners,” I say, nodding toward his spread of film notes. “Don’t tell me you kicked some freshman out of here so you could watch tape.”
He smirks, and it’s unfair how familiar it feels. “Didn’t have to. They saw me coming and scattered.”
“Intimidation. Classic.” I wrap my fingers around my cup, the heat searing my palms. “Still works, I guess.”
His mouth curves, but the grin doesn’t stick. “Long week,” he mutters, then shakes his head like he didn’t mean to say it. After a beat, he adds, quieter, “Long year.”
The words scrape out of him like they weren’t meant for me at all, heavier than I expect. His shoulders sag, just for a second, and his gaze drops to the coffee in his hands, fingers tightening around the cup like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.
For a second, it feels almost normal, the banter, the push and pull we used to fall into so easily.
But the crack in his voice lingers, tugging at something I don’t want to feel.
I should let it go, pretend I didn’t notice.
Instead, my chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, I almost whisper, “You don’t have to carry it alone. ”
His head lifts, eyes narrowing, searching my face like he wants me to finish the thought. I bite the inside of my cheek and look down at my cup. “Forget it.” The words scrape out thin, because finishing the thought would mean admitting I still care.
My throat burns with everything unsaid. How I used to be the one who leaned against his shoulder, how I used to be the one who knew when he was tired without asking. Now I’m just another person across from him, pretending I don’t still see the cracks.
But then my eyes catch the glint of his wedding ring against the paper cup in front of him, and my stomach twists.
I take a step back, reminding myself where we are. Who we are. “Well. Good luck with your… film or whatever.”
“Sarah.” He says my name again, softer this time. I freeze, because damn it, he still knows how to make it sound like more than just two syllables. Like a tether I can’t cut.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “Don’t.”
Something flickers across his face, but he doesn’t push. Not at first. Then, almost too low to hear, he says, “Don’t look at me like that.”
My throat goes dry. “Like what?”
His eyes pin me, stripped bare in a way I can’t handle. “Like you still see me.”
My pulse stutters, heat crawling up my neck.
I should deny it, laugh, tell him he’s imagining things.
But I don’t. Because he’s right. And that’s the problem.
He’s always been the one person I couldn’t look straight at without feeling seen—even back then, when it should’ve been simple.
Before vows. Before rings. Before everything got heavy.
Past
I remember one time, sophomore year, the night before my comms midterm, and I’d barricaded myself in the library with highlighters and a venti caramel latte.
I told myself no distractions, no excuses, just me, a hundred notecards, and three chapters of media theory.
Emma was tucked away a few rows over, headphones in, already lost in her own stack of notes, so I figured I was safe from interruptions.
The library smelled like old paper and burnt coffee, the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Students whispered over half-open laptops, the shuffle of pages and the scrape of chairs filling the quiet.
I’d staked out the corner table, the one with the crooked lamp, determined not to move until every card in my stack made sense.
And then Jace slid into the seat across from me like he owned the place. Backward cap, smug grin, and a bag of pretzels he tossed on top of my carefully organized stack.
My pulse tripped before I could stop it. He always had that effect on me—turning focus into static, nerves into sparks. I tightened my grip on my highlighter like maybe the neon plastic could anchor me against the pull he never seemed to notice—or maybe he noticed too well.
“Studying,” I warned, holding up a highlighter like it was a weapon.
“Relax,” he said, leaning back so casually it made me want to scream. “I’m just here to provide moral support.”
“Pretty sure moral support doesn’t involve crinkling a bag every two seconds.”
He grinned wider, popped a pretzel in his mouth, and chewed obnoxiously slow just to get under my skin. I tried to focus on my notes, but he had that look—the one that said he was two seconds away from making me laugh when I needed to be serious.
“Quiz me,” he said finally, kicking one long leg out under the table. “Come on. If I can’t be your snack supplier, at least let me prove I’m useful.”
I rolled my eyes but flipped a notecard anyway. “Fine. Define framing theory.”
He raised his brows. “That’s easy. It’s what happens when I stand in your doorway shirtless, and suddenly you can’t think straight.”
Heat flared up my neck, spreading across my cheeks. I opened my mouth to shut him down, but the words tangled, useless, because damn it, he wasn’t wrong about how easily he could derail me. “That’s not even remotely what that means,” I snapped, but my voice wavered more than I wanted it to.
“You didn’t deny it,” he cut in with a smirk sharp enough to make my pen slip across the page.
I tried to scowl, but my lips twitched, and then he was laughing, low and warm, like the sound was just for me. My chest did that stupid skip it always did when he was around, the one I pretended was caffeine but knew better.
“Okay, coach,” I muttered, flipping to another card. “Term: selective exposure.”
“That’s when you only make out with me during finals week.”
My mouth dropped. “That happened one time.”
The table between us felt suddenly too small, his breath warm enough that the tiny hairs at my nape prickled. I tried to lean back, but the chair dug into me, pinning me in place.
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Once you’ll admit.”
My pulse jumped so hard I nearly dropped my pen. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re smiling,” he said, pointing at me with his pretzel like he’d just won something.
I tried to wipe the grin off my face, but it clung stubbornly, and his eyes softened in a way that made the whole world tilt. Like the game was over, and what was left underneath was the truth neither of us said out loud.
The librarian cleared her throat from across the room, and we both ducked our heads, guilty but grinning.
I scribbled nonsense on the margin of my notes just to keep my hands busy, while Jace sat there like he hadn’t just derailed my entire night with a handful of jokes and one look that lingered too long.
By the end of the hour, I knew exactly three more terms for the exam. But I knew the shape of his smile by heart.
It’s strange, looking back now, how easy it all was. How quick the laughter came, how natural it felt to have him across from me, filling the spaces I didn’t know were empty. Maybe I should’ve known then that easy never lasts.
…………
The flash of memory dissolves, and I blink back into the present, the hiss of the espresso machine, the scrape of chairs, the weight of Jace only a few feet away.
I adjust my stance, the scuff of my boot on the floor louder than I’d prefer. It’s enough to make his head lift, eyes catching mine for one suspended second before I force myself to look away. I need to go. Out the door, into the cold, anywhere that isn’t here with him.
I should step back, put space between us, but my feet don’t move.
I hover too close to the edge of the table, fingers tightening on my coffee like it’s the only anchor I’ve got.
When he reaches for his cup, his sleeve grazes mine.
Just the faintest contact, gone in a breath, but my pulse reacts like it’s a brand.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like the word costs him.
I shake my head quickly, gripping my coffee tighter. “Don’t worry about it.” My voice comes out thinner than I want, but it’s all I can give without shattering.
But I don’t move either. My hand hovers at my side, inches from his.
If I shifted even a little, our fingers would touch.
That single thought coils tight in my stomach, a spark I shouldn’t want, shouldn’t need.
His gaze flicks down like he’s thinking the same thing, like he remembers exactly how it felt the last time my hand fit into his.
For one suspended second, the world narrows.
Just me and him, the smell of roasted beans and caramel sugar heavy between us, the hum of the coffee shop fading to a distant blur.
His eyes catch mine, holding, searching, almost asking.
My chest aches with the weight of everything unsaid, everything I’ve buried and pretended didn’t matter.
I inhale too sharply, the sound betraying me. His jaw flexes, like he heard it, like he knows.
And then I step back. Fast. Hard enough that my bag slips against my hip and the coffee nearly sloshes out of my cup. “I should go,” I say, forcing a laugh that doesn’t sound like me. “Places to be.”
The corner of his mouth tightens, not quite a frown, not quite anything at all. “Right.”
I push past him, ignoring the way my pulse races, ignoring the heat that lingers where our shoulders brushed.
The door is only a few steps away, but each one feels heavier than the last. My body wants to look back, to catch one more glimpse, to prove he’s still watching me the way he always used to.
I don’t. I can’t.
The bell chimes again as I shove into the cold, air sharp against my cheeks. My legs move fast, faster than they need to, carrying me down the street like if I put enough distance between us, the ache in my chest will fade. It doesn’t.
By the time I reach my car, my coffee is lukewarm, and my hands are shaking. I set the cup on the roof just to fumble my keys into the lock, my breath fogging in uneven bursts.
I lean against the door for a second before sliding inside, closing my eyes like maybe darkness will quiet the storm in my head.
It doesn’t. Because all I see is him—his shoulders bent under weight he wouldn’t name, the crack in his voice when he said “long year,” the way his gaze lingered like maybe I was still the thing he couldn’t shake either.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel, exhaling hard. I should be stronger than this. I should know better. He’s married. He made his choice. And I swore I wouldn’t let myself be dragged back into his orbit again.
But my heart doesn’t care about choices. It never has.
And the truth is brutal, undeniable, the thing I don’t want to say out loud but can’t escape:
I’m not over him.
Not when his voice still knows how to break me.
Not when every part of me still remembers what it felt like to be his.
I grip the wheel tighter, blinking against the sting in my eyes. No matter how much I want to be free of him, I’m not. Not even close.