9. Tarryn #2
I return her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't coming until next month."
She pulls back, grinning. "Conference got moved up. I'm here for three days of pediatric emergency training at Chicago Memorial." Her eyes sweep over me, narrowing slightly. "But more importantly, what is going on with you?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, unlocking my office door and ushering her inside. “I’m working, it’s the middle of the day, that’s what’s going on with me.”
Ellie plops into my visitor chair, studying me with the uncomfortable intensity only siblings can wield. "Not that. There's this… electricity about you. Something's different." Her eyes widen suddenly. "Oh my God, who is he?"
"There's no 'he,'" I protest, perhaps too quickly.
"Bull. Shit." She leans forward, elbows on my desk. "I haven't seen that look on your face since you know who." She gives me that big sister stare.
“What?” I try to act coy. “Oh please, you’re overreacting. But, um, speaking of Jackson, I actually saw him recently.”
She stops abruptly, realization dawning. "No way. Is Jackson in Chicago?"
My reaction—the immediate flush that spreads across my cheeks, the way my fingers automatically rise to touch the daisy pendant—gives me away before I can form a denial.
"Holy shit," Ellie breathes, eyes wide. "Jackson Hayes is here? In Chicago?"
"Keep your voice down," I hiss, glancing anxiously toward the door.
"Oh my God," she repeats. “Here as in HERE? He’s at your firm?” she half shouts, half whispers, a slow smile spreading across her face. "This is why you've been dodging my calls."
"He works here," I admit, sinking into my chair. "He started two weeks ago."
Ellie's jaw drops. "Two weeks? And you didn't tell me? We spoke three days ago!"
"It's complicated, El."
"Complicated how? You work together. So what? Half the couples I know met at work."
"We're competing for the same promotion," I explain, keeping my voice low. "And there's history, obviously, and it's been eight years, and?—"
"And you're still wearing the necklace he gave you," she interrupts, pointing to the daisy pendant. "The one you've never taken off, not even for dates with other guys."
I touch the pendant self-consciously. "It goes with everything."
She snorts. "Right. And I'm secretly the Queen of England." She leans back, studying me. "So, what's he like now? Still gorgeous?"
Against my will, an image of Jackson from this morning flashes through my mind—the way his tailored suit accentuates his broad shoulders, how his forearms look when he rolls up his sleeves, the blue of his eyes that still reminds me of summer skies over Maple Ridge.
"He's… fine," I manage, ignoring Ellie's knowing smirk. "Professional. We're working on a project together."
"Uh-huh." She's not buying it for a second. "And that explains why you look like you've been electrocuted every time I mention his name."
Before I can formulate a suitably dismissive response, my assistant pokes her head in. "Ms. Wells? The Westfield team is gathering in Conference Room B. Mr. Hayes asked specifically if you could bring the subsidiary disclosure agreements."
"Thank you, Jenny. I'll be right there."
Ellie arches an eyebrow as Jenny disappears. "Mr. Hayes, huh? Asking specifically for you?"
"It's work-related," I insist, gathering the requested documents. "Look, I have to go to this meeting. Can we do dinner tonight? My treat."
"Absolutely." She stands, gathering her purse. "You're not getting out of this conversation that easily. I want all the details."
I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. For all her teasing, Ellie's presence feels like a life raft in the stormy waters of my current situation. "Fine. I'll text you when I'm done."
She hugs me again before leaving, whispering, "For what it's worth, I always liked him. Even after everything."
"So let me get this straight," Ellie says, twirling pasta around her fork at the little Italian place near my apartment.
"Jackson Hayes—the boy you loved so much you carved your initials into every tree in Maple Ridge—shows up at your firm, looking like"—she gestures expansively—"whatever godlike evolution of himself you've been trying not to describe all evening, and you're fighting it because you might lose a promotion? "
Put that way, it does sound ridiculous. I take a sip of wine, buying time. "It's more complicated than that."
"Isn't it always with you?" She sighs, setting down her fork. "Look, Tar, I get that your career is important. I do. But is it worth sacrificing everything else?"
"I'm not sacrificing everything. I date."
"You go through the motions," she corrects gently. "You haven't let anyone get close since Jackson."
I stare into my wineglass, watching the burgundy liquid catch the candlelight. "That's not true."
"Name one guy you've dated in the last eight years who knew your middle name."
I open my mouth, then close it again. Point to Ellie.
"It's not just about the promotion," I admit finally. "It's about… what if we try again and it falls apart? We can't escape each other at work. And honestly, I'm not sure I could survive losing him a second time."
Ellie's expression softens. "Did you know he defended you? After you left?" At my confused look, she continues. "Back in Maple Ridge. When people started saying you were cold for leaving him behind, that you chose your career over love—he shut them down. Every time."
"He did?" Something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought of Jackson defending me even as I was pulling away.
She nods. "Mom ran into him at the grocery store about a year after you left.
She said he asked about you, wanted to know if you were happy at Northwestern.
When she mentioned she was worried you were working too hard, he told her, 'That's just Tarryn.
She puts her whole heart into everything she believes in. It's what makes her special.'"
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "He said that? After how things ended?"
"He did." Ellie reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. "Look, I don't know what happened between you two. You've never really talked about it. But whatever it was… he never stopped believing in you."
I swallow hard, blinking back tears. "I've spent eight years convincing myself I made the right choice."
"Maybe you did, at the time," she says gently. "But that doesn't mean you have to keep making the same choice now."
We fall silent as the server brings our dessert—tiramisu for Ellie, panna cotta for me. As I poke at the delicate custard, Ellie's expression turns more serious.
"Can I tell you something about Dad?" she asks.
I nod, curiosity piqued by her sudden shift in tone.
"He told me once, a couple years ago when he'd had a few too many scotches, that his biggest regret wasn't losing the business." She pauses, making sure I'm really listening. "It was showing you that surrender was an option."
The words hit like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"
"After the lawsuit, when he lost everything… he said he watched you transform. Before, you were this dreamy kid who wrote stories and believed in possibilities. After, you became so… practical. So determined not to be vulnerable."
"He had to file for bankruptcy," I protest. "We lost our home. I saw what happened when he tried to fight back and failed."
"Yes, and that changed you." Ellie's eyes are kind but unflinching. "He told me he wishes he'd shown you how to get back up after being knocked down, instead of teaching you to avoid getting hit in the first place."
Something cracks inside me—a hairline fracture in the foundation of beliefs I've constructed my entire adult life around. I've always told myself that watching my father's defeat made me stronger, more determined, more practical. I never considered it might have made me afraid.
"I'm not afraid of getting hurt," I insist, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
"Aren't you?" Ellie challenges gently. "You left Maple Ridge to pursue opportunities, not to become someone who's afraid to feel anything.
" She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand.
"Don't shut Jackson out because you're scared, Tar.
At least not without finding out if what you still feel for each other is worth fighting for. "
My apartment feels emptier than usual after I drop Ellie at her hotel. Her words echo in my mind as I move through my evening routine on autopilot.
Don't shut Jackson out because you're scared.
Am I scared? The automatic denial rises to my lips, but in the silence of my apartment, I force myself to examine the truth.
I'm terrified.
Terrified of the way Jackson still makes my pulse race eight years later. Terrified of the feelings I've spent nearly a decade burying. Terrified that if I let him in again, losing him would destroy whatever carefully constructed walls I've built to protect myself.
I sink onto my couch, absently fingering the daisy pendant. The gold has warmed against my skin, familiar and comforting. How many times have I touched it when stressed or anxious? How many times have I caught myself thinking of him when my fingers find it?
You're still wearing the necklace he gave you. The one you've never taken off, not even for dates with other guys.
Ellie's right. I've been carrying a piece of Jackson with me all these years, even as I tried to convince myself I'd moved on. The pendant isn't just jewelry—it's a talisman, a connection to the girl I was before life taught me to be careful, to prioritize security over possibility.
My phone sits on the coffee table. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pick it up and send Jackson a quick text.
Me: I know I’ve said it already, but I’m so sorry, for everything.
A minute later there’s a response from him.
Jackson: You have nothing to be sorry for, Tarryn. I told you that. The only thing I want is for us to repair the past and maybe even have some semblance of a future.
Before I can respond, one more message appears.
Jackson: And to clarify, I'm not asking for anything, Tarryn. I just needed you to know that some things don't change. No matter how hard we try to convince ourselves they have.
I stare at his words, heart pounding. The professional woman I've worked so hard to become screams that this is dangerous, that I should maintain boundaries, that I'm risking everything I've built.
But another voice—softer but growing stronger—whispers that maybe some risks are worth taking. That maybe the greatest risk isn't in reaching for what I want, but in pretending I don't want it at all.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I try to find words for the storm of emotions raging inside me. Finally, I type back a reply.
Me: I still feel it, Jackson. And that terrifies me more than anything.
His response comes immediately, as if he's been waiting.
Jackson: What exactly are you afraid of, Tarryn?
Such a simple question. Such a complicated answer. I curl deeper into my couch cushions, pulling a throw blanket over my lap as I consider how to respond.
Me: Losing myself.
Me: Losing everything I've worked for. Losing you again.
The vulnerability of the admission makes my chest tight. I've spent years building walls, constructing a version of myself that's invulnerable to the kind of heartbreak I experienced at nineteen. Now I'm dismantling those defenses with every word I send.
Three dots appear, then:
Jackson: What if I promised you wouldn't lose any of those things?
I laugh softly but it’s tinged with melancholy.
Me: Can you really promise that? We both know how easily promises are broken.
His reply takes longer this time, each passing second stretching my nerves tighter.
Jackson: No. I can't promise that. But I can promise to be honest this time. No more pride. No more hiding behind excuses.
I reply, asking the question that cuts to the heart of my fear.
Me: And what if it's not enough?
Jackson: Then at least we'll know we tried. That we were brave enough to find out.
Brave. The word resonates through me, stirring something that's lain dormant for years. When did I stop being brave? When did I start choosing safety over possibility?
I respond, my last defense against what I truly want.
Me: We work together.
Me: It's complicated.
Jackson: Life is complicated, Tar. Doesn't mean we stop living it.
I chew my lip nervously. Then I finally reply.
Me: I need time.
Me: Time to figure out what I want. What I'm willing to risk.
Jackson: Fair enough. I've waited eight years. I can wait a little longer.
I stare at those words, feeling the weight of them—the patience, the understanding, the quiet certainty that what lies between us is worth waiting for.
Me: Thank you. For understanding. And Jackson?
Jackson: Yes?
Me: I'm glad you're here. Even if it complicates everything.
Three dots appear, disappear, then another message appears.
Jackson: Me too, beautiful. More than you know.
I set my phone down, drawing my knees to my chest as I gaze out my window at the Chicago skyline.
For eight years, I've been playing it safe.
Protecting myself from hurt, from vulnerability, from the messy, complicated business of truly connecting with another person.
I've been so focused on becoming the strong, independent woman I thought I needed to be that I forgot the strength it takes to open myself to possibility, to potential pain, to love.
Tomorrow, I'll see Jackson in the hallways of Blake Financial. We'll discuss the Westfield contract, exchange professional pleasantries, pretend that we haven't just cracked open the door to something that terrifies and thrills us both.
But tonight, alone in my apartment with the ghost of his words illuminating my phone screen, I allow myself to consider a radical possibility: that the greatest act of courage isn't walking away to protect myself but taking a chance on the one person who has always seen me clearly, even when I couldn't see myself.
My phone chimes with one last message.
Jackson: Sweet dreams, Tarryn. I'll see you tomorrow.