Chapter Twelve
Wrong Man, Wrong Moment
Sarah
Emma is watching me the way people watch a car accident they can’t stop. Chin propped on her hand, eyes narrowed, lips pursed like she’s waiting for me to crack.
“I’m fine,” I say for the third time.
“You’re lying,” she says without even blinking. “And you’re terrible at it.”
I groan into my coffee. “Em—”
“Nope.” She leans in, forearms on the table. “You already told me you had feelings for him, so don’t try to backpedal now.”
“Emma—”
“And you need to stop hiding in your house and pretending binge-watching murder docs is a personality trait.”
“It is when they’re well-made.”
She gives me the least amused look I’ve ever seen. “Sarah. She filed for divorce, and moved out months ago. Anyone with eyes can see that. And before you ask, no, I didn’t hear it from Jace. Ethan’s home for his bye week, and he let it slip he was worried about him.”
My stomach drops even though I was thinking it might be possible.
She doesn’t stop. “And now that you’ve admitted, multiple times, that you’re in love with a man you’re trying desperately not to think about, we’re not doing this whole hermit routine again.”
“Em—”
“Nope.” She sits back, folding her arms like she’s ruling from a throne. “New plan. Since you’re doing your best to ‘forget’ him, you’re going on a date.”
I blink. “Come again?”
“A date. A safe one. Someone normal and boring and nice.”
“I don’t want boring.”
“You also don’t want to be sitting at your kitchen table crying over a man you aren’t sure you’ll ever be with.” Her look softens. “Just one date. Reset your brain. Remind yourself there are other men on planet Earth.”
I hate that she’s right.
I hate even more that going feels like betrayal… to who, I don’t know. Myself? Jace? The version of me who swore she wouldn’t fall apart like this?
Emma keeps going, because of course she does. “You’re not cheating. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re allowed to… you know… see if your heart will latch on to someone who doesn’t come with years of emotional damage and a messy marital status.”
I snort. “You make it sound so romantic.”
“I’m serious.” Her voice turns gentle, the one she uses when she’s trying not to spook me. “You’ve been in love with this man for so long you don’t even remember what it feels like not to be. Just… give yourself a night where you pretend there’s another option.”
I stare at the steam curling off my coffee.
A tiny, stubborn part of me whispers that there isn’t another option. That it’s always been him. That every time I’ve tried to move on, I end up in the same place.
But Emma is staring me down, relentlessly.
“Fine,” I say quietly. “One date.”
Her victory grin is immediate. “I already have someone in mind.”
I squint at her. “Of course you do.”
“Relax. Brian. He works in your building, in accounting, I think. He’s cute in a wholesome way, and he asked about you at the Alumni event.”
I think back to that night. I vaguely remember a guy in a navy suit making a joke about spreadsheets and terrible office coffee. “That Brian?”
“That Brian,” she says, smug. “Harmless. Employed. Owns a dog. You could do worse.”
My chest feels tight, but I nod. “Okay. Text him.”
She’s already pulling out her phone. “Look at you. Personal growth.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
Because the truth is, I’m tired of feeling like my life is on pause, waiting to see what happens to someone else’s marriage. I’m tired of circling the same ache.
Maybe one date won’t fix anything. But at least it’ll be something that isn’t sitting alone on my couch, replaying old conversations in my head.
Emma looks up from her phone. “Done. Seven o’clock tonight. Casual at The Bar. You’re welcome.”
I blink. “Wait—how do you even have his number?”
She doesn’t flinch. “I asked him.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Emma!”
“Relax,” she says, waving her hand. “I told Ethan what I needed it for, and he was fully on board. Apparently he wants you out of your house as much as I do.”
I stare at her, stunned. “You two are unbelievable.”
“Correct,” she says, sliding her phone into her bag. “Now go take a shower, put on something that says ‘I’m normal,’ and try not to overthink this.”
“Tonight?” My eyes widened. “Isn’t that a little fast?”
She shrugs. “You overthink. I’m just compensating.”
I flip her off. She laughs and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
“You’ll be okay,” she says softly. “And if it sucks, you come home, put on sweatpants, and I’ll bring over ice cream and we can mock everyone on that reality dating show you hate-watch.”
I exhale slowly. “Deal.”
I spend way too long getting ready for a date I don’t even want.
My bedroom looks like a closet exploded. Three tops on the bed, two dresses hanging from the door, a graveyard of rejected shoes on the floor. I settle on jeans and a black blouse that dips just enough at the neckline to feel like I tried, but not enough to send the wrong message.
It’s ridiculous, worrying about sending the wrong message on a date with someone I’m supposedly giving a chance. But there it is.
I stand in front of the mirror, mascara wand hovering near my lashes, and stare at my face. I look… tired. Not in a dramatic, sobbing-into-a-pillow way. Just worn. Like I’ve been bracing for impact for months.
“You’re allowed to figure it out,” I whisper to my reflection, the words slipping out even though I’m not sure I believe them yet. “And you’re allowed to go on one date.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
Emma: Send me a pic of the outfit or I’m showing up and dressing you myself.
I huff out a laugh and snap a quick mirror selfie, hitting send before I can overthink it.
Emma: Hot. Ethically hot. You look amazing.
Emma: You’ve got this. And if you panic, text me and I’ll fake an emergency.
Me: Like what, your cat caught fire?
Emma: I don’t have a cat.
Me: Exactly.
Emma: Go. Before you talk yourself out of it.
I grab my bag, shove my phone inside, and force my feet toward the door.
In my car, I spend the whole drive fighting with my own thoughts.
You’re just going on a date.
You’re not cheating.
He’s married. Maybe getting divorced. That’s a whole mess you don’t want to be in.
You’re allowed to talk to a nice man who likes dogs and hates the printer on the third floor.
By the time I pull up to the bar, my pulse is too fast and my hands are damp.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and step out.
I meet Brian at The Bar. We’ve exchanged a few elevator chats at work. He’s taller than I remember too. He seems easygoing. Safe, in the way I’m supposed to want.
He smiles when he sees me. “Hey! Glad you could make it.”
I smile back, because that’s what you do. “Yeah. Me too.”
We sit and order drinks. We talk about work, the weather, how his dog eats socks like it’s a hobby.
On paper, the date is perfect. He remembers small details from our random elevator chats.
He asks about my job without turning it into a bit about ‘sports ball.’ He makes a joke about his fantasy league that actually lands.
In reality, my body feels like it’s operating on a delay. I hear him. I respond. But nothing… lands. None of it reaches the place inside me that’s been raw since the day I stood in that church hallway, trying to let someone go while wishing I didn’t want to.
I laugh in the right places. I sip my drink. I ask him questions. I even enjoy parts of it. It feels like watching someone else’s life from the outside though.
At one point he asks, “So, what do you like to do when you’re not wrangling coaches and media?”
I think about all the nights I let reality-TV reruns fill my house because silence felt too honest. How I kept trying to scrub him out of my system even though I never really had him to begin with. Spoiler: it hasn’t worked. Not once. But I can’t say any of that to Brian.
“I read a lot,” I say instead. “And I watch too many documentaries.”
“True crime?” he guesses.
“Sometimes.” I shrug. “Sometimes travel stuff. Sometimes a good nature show. Depends on the week.”
He grins. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I contain multitudes.”
He laughs, and I force a small smile back, but my gaze drifts to the door without my permission.
Once.
Then again.
Brian notices. “Waiting for someone?”
“No.” My cheeks heat. “Just… habit.”
He laughs lightly. “Bad habit?”
You have no idea.
I grip my glass a little tighter.
We’re halfway through our second drink when the air shifts. Not the temperature or the noise.
But I sense something or someone.
The kind of presence that hits before you even turn your head.
I don’t want to look but I do anyway.
And there he is.
Jace.
Fresh off work, hair damp like he showered recently, shoulders filling out a dark henley that should be illegal. He’s walking in with Ethan and two players I recognize from the team.
Emma mentioned Ethan was home for his bye week, but I didn’t expect to see him here. I definitely didn’t expect him to be out with the guys. Maybe they dragged him out to celebrate being off for a few days.
Either way, the timing feels cruel.
He’s smiling at something Ethan says—
Until he sees me.
His entire body goes still. Like someone pressed pause.
Ethan follows his line of sight, mutters “Oh, shit,” under his breath, and claps him on the shoulder like a warning.
Jace doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
His eyes lock on mine from halfway across the room, and the impact hits me so hard my breath stumbles.
I force myself to turn back toward Brian, who’s mid-story about his sister’s wedding.
“—and then the bridesmaid fainted because the venue forgot to turn the AC on, can you believe… Are you okay?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah. Just warm in here.”
Lie. My heart is pounding in my throat. My hands won’t stop shaking. I curl them around my glass to hide it.
I shouldn’t look again, but I can’t help it.
I look again.