Chapter 8
ADAM
I get to our booth and find Amelia gone. I scan the crowd, thinking maybe she went to the bathroom or grabbed drinks from the bar.
Her drink is still there, sans bag.
The only thing on our table is my phone, and I grab it immediately. The screen lights up with an email from my sister about the plane ticket and accommodation details.
My mind scrambles, but my heart stops.
Amelia must have seen this. I never mentioned Lisbon to her, maybe because we were too busy learning each other’s desires. To be perfectly honest, the trip hasn’t crossed my mind since I met her.
Panic sets in, crawling up my spine like ice. I text her immediately.
Where did you go?
Amelia, please.
Talk to me.
No reply, so I shoot her another message.
It’s not what you think. Please just let me explain.
I call, and it goes straight to voicemail.
My mouth is dry. The bar lights are still pulsing red across the walls, but it’s like the air’s been sucked out of the place. Everyone’s dancing, laughing, shouting over music, and I’m frozen.
I throw cash on the table and shove through the crowd, pushing into the night.
My apartment. Maybe she went there. Maybe she’s there now, curled on my couch, waiting for me to explain.
When I get there, the place is quiet.
I stand in the middle of my living room, feeling like the walls are closing in.
My mind spirals fast, latching onto everything I should’ve done.
Should’ve told her about the trip. Should’ve mentioned the gift from my sister.
Should’ve reassured her that nothing—nothing—would’ve kept me from telling her eventually.
I drop onto the couch, running both hands down my face, then pull my phone up again. Still no response. Her read receipts are off. Of course they are.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I do the only thing I can think of.
I Google her.
Her profile isn’t public, so I search for ‘Amelia Moore party planning.’ I scroll until I find the business listing, the address. It’s closed now, obviously, but it’s something.
I have to wait until morning.
I’ve never hated the hours between midnight and sunrise more in my life.
Every minute, I go back and forth, pacing the length of my living room.
Should I explain the trip first? Tell her it was a gift my sister booked months ago and only sent the final confirmation today.
It’s a one-way ticket because she wasn’t sure where I wanted to go or how long I planned to vacation. Should I lead with that?
Or do I tell Amelia that communication is supposed to be what we’re good at? That our entire relationship started from words—honest, messy, straightforward, vulnerable ones. And she could’ve asked, could’ve let me explain.
Or maybe I just need to beg. Fall to my knees if I have to. If begging is what it takes to keep her—if that’s the price of not losing the best damn thing I’ve ever had—then I’ll pay it.
Because I can’t take it if she walks away.
I don’t think I’ll survive that kind of heartbreak.
The sun’s up, and my head feels like it weighs a ton. Everything looks so bright and yellow, and they’re hurting my eyes.
This is probably because I haven’t slept all night. I tossed and turned, and I gave up trying at four AM.
I’ve been sitting on the curb outside her building for the last twenty minutes, but it’s only now—when I glance at the laundromat next door—that I start to seriously worry about getting arrested.
The older woman behind the counter is giving me the kind of look I imagine one reserves for drunks who spent the whole night daring themselves how much they can drink before they pass out.
If she has a panic button under that register, I’m probably five seconds away from hearing sirens.
I must look like hell. I feel like hell. I didn’t shower, and I’m still wearing the same damn polo shirt from the bar last night, and there’s a lipstick stain on the collar.
Goddammit. If my own sister sees me, she’d call the cops herself.
Then, I hear her before I see her—keys jingling, the soft rhythm of her shoes on the pavement. My head snaps up, and then I stop breathing entirely.
It’s her.
Amelia.
And she looks wrecked.
She looks perfect as always, but it’s her eyes that gut me—bloodshot and swollen like she cried through the night.
I stand up too fast and nearly trip over my own feet, reminiscent of the time I almost fell on our first date. Has it been just a few days ago? It could be a lifetime.
She pauses when she sees me. Her mouth parts, but no sound comes out. My chest tightens. God, I want to touch her, but I stay where I am. Because this is her sidewalk, her space, and I’ve already broken something I’m not sure I have the right to fix.
She unlocks the door without looking at me.
A soft click, a gentle push, and then, she steps aside so I can enter. Her fingers brush the edge of my sleeve as I pass her, and that barely-there contact feels louder than anything either of us has said so far.
Her space is small—just an office, a bathroom, and a glass door separating it from the street.
But it’s cozy, colorful, full of little details that scream Amelia: a shelf of pastel-colored coffee mugs, a lip-shaped couch, dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, a pinboard bursting with swatches, Polaroids, and scribbled ideas, a crooked photo frame holding a picture of a cake that’s too pretty to eat.
It’s so her.
But she isn’t.
She moves quietly around the room, setting her bag down, turning on the lights, flipping her planner open even though we both know she’s not seeing any of it. She’s here, but not here. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is almost too low for me to hear. “You want coffee?”
I almost ask if she’s okay, but I already know the answer.
“Sure,” I say, and my voice sounds too deep in the silence between us.
She walks to the tiny coffee station as I stand frozen in the middle of the room, more out of fear than politeness. The air feels too fragile to move through. One wrong word and I’ll crack it open.
Eventually, I find my voice. “Amelia, I’m sor?—”
“I’m sorry,” she says at the exact same time.
We both stop, and she laughs softly.
I let out a breath and smile, relief bleeding into the edges of the ache in my chest. I clear my throat, hoping it’ll clear the fear, too. “Can I go first?”
She nods slowly and sets the coffee mugs down without a word. Her silence slices clean through me. In the short time we spent together, she was never silent.
“The Portugal trip? It’s not what you think.”
Her shoulders tighten, and she stares at a spot on my shoulder.
“I should’ve told you about it. I meant to, but—” I run a hand down my face.
“I forgot. Genuinely. It’s been booked for months.
My sister planned the whole thing. She FaceTimed me one night and basically roasted me for being a shut-in and told me I looked like shit, like a man who hasn’t seen the sun shine in years. ”
That earns me a snort. It’s barely audible, but it’s something.
“She booked the plane ticket and set up a few weeks in Portugal, then Spain. One way. Because she wanted me to take as much time as I needed. Said I could extend it or bounce around Europe.” I laugh quietly, though it’s dry.
“I wasn’t even excited, honestly. It felt like a favor to her more than something for me. ”
I step closer to her. “Then, I met you, and I forgot the trip even existed. I wasn’t planning anything. I wasn’t hiding anything. I was too busy thinking about your voice and how your emails made me smile like an idiot. Too busy falling for you to think about an escape.”
She exhales, and the sound is long, trembling. “I’m sorry too for … just leaving.”
I don’t interrupt. I want her to say whatever she needs to say, even if it guts me.
She swallows and meets my eyes. “It’s not an excuse, but I’ve gotten used to catching people in lies. Finding things out. Seeing something and knowing, just knowing, it meant they were already halfway out the door.”
Her voice breaks a little at the edges, and I feel every crack like it’s opening inside my own chest.
“I saw that flight info and my brain just … spiraled. And instead of asking, I ran like I always do. My fault is not talking to you first. Not trusting you enough to believe there might be an explanation.”
I take a cautious step forward. “You were hurt. That’s not on you alone.”
Her lips twitch sadly. “But I want to be better. I don’t want to be that girl who assumes the worst, especially not with you.”
“Well,” I say, voice still low, still raw. “Guess we just had our first fight.”
“Oh no,” she says gravely. “Does this mean we have to get matching ‘we survived our first fight’ t-shirts? Or maybe mugs because they’re on-brand for us?”
“You kind of conveniently forget that we fucked in public, actually in public, with people around us.”
Her eyes widen, and she groans. “God, that got buried because I was too stupid.”
That does it.
I pull her to me without thinking, my arms wrapping around her, caging her in. She melts into me. Her body folds into mine, and she rubs her cheek against my chest. “We can always do it again, you know.”
Amelia tilts her face to look at me. “I corrupted you successfully, didn’t I?”
I bury my face in her hair and chuckle. “Thoroughly, my love. You corrupted me thoroughly.”
“And you love it.”
“Damn right. I love every single thing.”
“Including me?”
“Especially you.” I plant a soft kiss on her mouth. “I love you, Amelia.”
She lets out a stuttering breath. “I love you, too, Adam.”