Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
ALLEY
What the hell am I doing?
He makes one joke about the way I was eating my potatoes, and suddenly I’m smiling like it didn’t take everything in me to walk away from him five months ago.
Like he didn’t make our lives a living hell for two straight years.
And let’s not even talk about the fact that my dad’s in a hospital bed fighting for his life.
I’m in a cafeteria flirting with my soon-to-be ex-husband like I’m on a dinner shift at work.
That is so messed up.
But it’s also the best feeling in the world.
To be laughing with Jensen.
To feel his gaze on me.
To be turning him on.
I’d take this moment over silence any day. Over grief. Over the ache of pretending I don’t care.
My heart squeezes tight in my chest. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.
Shit. Does that mean I need him? I can’t let myself go there.
I’m finally—finally—in a place where I can see the light again.
Jensen walks back into my life for five minutes and flips the damn switch, like nothing ever happened.
The light’s so bright, it’s blinding me. Fooling me.
I cannot be this easy.
That is absolutely pathetic.
“Do you remember our ice cream fight?” Jensen asks, smirking.
That smirk—I’ve seen it hundreds of times, and it’s still just as sexy as the first.
“Of course I remember.” I scoop up another bite of potatoes, this time putting on a show. I close my eyes, wrap my lips around the spoon, and drag it out slow—soft, sinful, completely over the top. I moan, just barely, trying not to laugh.
He folds his arms across his chest, one brow raised. “So you remember what happened when you did that with the ice cream?”
“Yep,” I say, lifting another spoonful to my mouth. This time, I don’t bite. I lick it. Slow. Deliberate. Eyes locked on his. My tongue flicks along the back of the spoon, teasing and playful. “I don’t think you’re going to tackle me in the cafeteria.”
His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to my mouth. And just like that, it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.
For a split second, he looks at me like he used to, right before we’d… well, you know.
Like he wants me.
More than just this.
Like nothing else exists.
Like it hurts to look at me.
Then he blinks, clears his throat, and looks away.
The tension fizzles fast, reality pouring cold water over the moment. God, I hate how quickly I miss what was just there.
I set the spoon down, suddenly needing to ground myself in something solid. Something safe.
What was that?
It’s like muscle memory kicked in.
This is me and Jensen.
It felt so natural—so normal—I didn’t even think about what it might do to him.
Or to me.
“Sorry,” I murmur, eyes dropping. “Got carried away.”
“It’s fine, Al.”
“So…” I force my gaze back to his. “Tell me about Switzerland.” I offer a small smile, a peace offering, and he takes it.
“Switzerland was great. Cold as shit, but really beautiful. Great food. Clean air. Matt made me do a fucking polar plunge in the Alps.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Thought I’d never see my balls again.”
My smile’s back. It’s that easy with him. “Oh my God, that’s insane. I could never.”
What I don’t say is that I’ve already watched that video a hundred times… along with other things I probably shouldn’t admit to.
He keeps talking—about the mountains, the hikes, the long talks with Matt.
“I loved it. And I’m really glad I got to spend that time with Matt. It was good for us, but—” He pauses, eyes catching mine. “I kept thinking about you. Wishing you were there.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. You’ve always wanted to go. It just… didn’t feel right without you.”
My eyes sting. My throat tightens. Goddammit. We were feeling the same thing, thousands of miles apart. I do want to go to Switzerland. Badly. And even now, after everything, I still want to go with him.
“It sounds like you had a great time either way,” I say softly. “I’m happy you got to experience that.”
I shift the conversation, asking more questions about his family, his job…
But I don’t ask about rehab.
Part of me doesn’t want to hear about it. I can’t hear about it.
Not after everything I’ve done to forget. Every day, I fight to erase certain memories from my mind, haunting images of Jensen. Of our home. Of the shit I had to see.
I don’t want to talk about anything that takes me back there.
So I sit here with him because this feels like old Jensen. Like old times—if old times had a giant crack running through the middle. But mostly, it just feels good.
And I need all the feel-goods I can get.
It doesn’t mean I’m seeing him tomorrow. Or next week. Or that I’m not signing the divorce papers.
It just means I’m still human.
And for now, I’m letting myself feel something other than pain. Even if it’s just for tonight.
Even if it breaks me again tomorrow.
I adjust the pillow beneath my head, the plastic lining crinkling in my ear. I’m on the couch, curled on my side, facing Jensen. He’s angled toward me, elbow propped on the back, head resting in his hand.
My dad’s asleep, he has been for over an hour. It was a busy day with visitors and tests. He was moved out of the ICU earlier today, after the doctor made his final rounds. All things considered, he’s doing well.
Now that he’s more stable, the visiting rules are a little more relaxed. I even have a bigger recliner now. Plus this couch. I’m praying I actually get some decent sleep tonight.
Megan and Matt flew home yesterday after spending the morning here. But Jensen’s still here. He’s been with me the past three days.
He’s crashing at Matt’s condo while he’s in town. He went back there after they left to take a few meetings he couldn’t miss. He’s leaving tomorrow night—needs to be back in the office Monday morning.
There’s been a comfort to having him here.
I’ve been carrying this ache in my heart for years. It started small, just a crack. But with every lie, every tear, every slammed door—every time I begged him to stop—it grew. Until it felt like a wrecking ball had torn straight through it.
It finally feels like that hole might be patching up.
Even though Jensen’s the one helping mend it, I’m not letting myself forget that he’s also the one who put it there.
It’s been nice, though—hanging out, talking, laughing, like before.
He stands and I watch, wide-eyed, with a grin plastered to my face, as he turns toward me and pounds his chest like a gorilla. Then he bends both elbows, brings his fists together, and flexes, letting out a whispered roar.
I laugh as quietly as I can. “That Yankees fan was more entertaining than the game. But he unbuttoned his shirt first, remember?”
Jensen chuckles. “Is that my cue to take off my shirt?”
I shake my head, rolling my eyes and smothering a laugh. But also—yes please. Take it off.
“I’m joking,” he says with a grin. “How could I forget? He had a giant NY tattooed on his chest.”
“Oh my God, yes. He was a die-hard fan.”
We’d gone to Boston for a quick weekend getaway to see a Red Sox–Yankees game. There was a wild Yankees fan in front of us.
He wasn’t just a fan. He lived, breathed, and slept Yankees. Full on uniform. His Brooklyn accent carried through the entire section.
When the Yankees hit a home run, he stood, turned to face us, ripped open his shirt, and roared like a gorilla.
It was hilarious.
“How many beers do you think he had?” I ask.
Jensen sits back down, facing me. “God, who knows? At least seven. But it felt like he pre-gamed hard. He was loud before the anthem even played.”
“He was a lot, for sure.” My cheeks ache from smiling. We’ve had a lot of laughs down memory lane tonight. “That trip was fun.”
“Yeah. It was… We’ve had a lot of great trips.”
“We have.”
His eyes burn into mine, and it’s so comfortable, so familiar, but it sparks a buzz under my skin. I look away, letting my gaze wander around the room until it lands on a plant one of Dad’s neighbors dropped off. I laugh quietly to myself. Like Dad could ever keep a plant alive.
I turn back to Jensen. “How’s Phyllis?”
“Random subject change,” he says with a grin, “but alive and thriving. I know how important she is to you.”
My brows pull together. “But you were gone for three months. Who watered her?”
“I told Matt when I left that if I came home and Phyllis was dead…” He puffs out a laugh. “I’d have no shot at getting you back.”
That makes me laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Dead.”
“Thank you.”
He leans in just a little, his voice softer. “All I ever want is to make you happy, babe.”
Babe.
He keeps calling me that, like old times—like we’ve fallen back into the roles of husband and wife.
I don’t stop him.
His expression shifts, serious now, as his eyes roam over my face with something I can only describe as longing. Butterflies stir low in my stomach, an almost foreign feeling.
I forgot.
Forgot what it feels like—
To have Jensen Adams look at me like that.
“You should come see her.” He scoots a little closer, his hand reaching for mine. He takes it gently, rests it on the couch between us, and starts tracing my palm with his finger.
His touch glides across my skin, mapping the lines and patterns like he’s memorizing them.
Holy shit, I can’t breathe.
A current shoots straight to my core, igniting something that’s been buried for too long.
Desire. Fear. Need.
It all collides inside me, swirling until I can’t tell one from the other.
He smooths his palm flat against mine. “Al,” he says softly, his voice low.
“Don’t,” I whisper, my vision blurring. “Please, don’t.”
I don’t know what’s happening.
And I don’t know what to do.
His eyes flutter shut, and he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t speak, just squeezes my hand, then lets go.
“I should go,” he says quietly, pushing up from the couch.
Panic shoots through my chest, and I sit up straighter. “No, wait.”
He pauses.
“Stay.” My voice is barely a breath. “Please.”