Chapter 2
Yesterday’s Ghost
My keys jingle as I unlock our apartment door.
After a long day at the clinic, my shoulders ache from bending over surgery tables and holding scared animals still.
I push the door open and the smell hits me immediately—garlic, ginger, soy sauce.
Harper’s making stir-fry. My stomach twists with hunger—I skipped lunch again, too caught up helping Dr. Martinez with back-to-back emergencies.
The lights glow warm, music drifts from the kitchen, and I pause in the doorway for a second, soaking in this slice of normal that keeps me going.
“I’m home,” I call out, dropping my bag and toeing off my shoes. They land in a heap beside Sara’s neat flats and Harper’s scuffed combat boots—our entire dynamic summed up in footwear.
“Perfect timing!” Sara’s voice floats from the kitchen. “Harper’s almost done.”
I make my way into the living room, taking in the chaotic mix of personalities that somehow fells like home now.
We’ve lived together long enough that our vastly different aesthetics have learned to coexist. Harper’s contribution shows in the vibrant street art prints hanging slightly crooked on the walls, giving our basic apartment an edge it doesn’t deserve.
Sara’s touch appears in the carefully arranged throw pillows on our secondhand couch, the soft blankets I keep refolding, the string lights draped across the ceiling that make everything feel warmer, softer.
And mine? The bookshelves. Three of them, lined up against the far wall like soldiers, packed tight with romance novels organized by author and series.
Spines cracked, pages dog-eared, covers worn soft from countless rereads.
While other women collect shoes or makeup palettes or vinyl records, I hoard stories where love actually works out in the end.
Harper stands at the stove, her red hair piled messily on top of her head, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon as she stirs something that smells incredible. She glances over her shoulder at me with a knowing smile. “Rough day?”
“Two emergency surgeries and an extremely pissed off tabby who drew blood,” I say, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. The cold glass feels good against my palm. “Just another Tuesday.”
Sara’s already at our mismatched kitchen table, setting out plates with her usual precision.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in a neat bun, and she’s changed out of her work scrubs into a soft pink sweater that makes her look like she walked out of a lifestyle magazine.
Too polished for our hodgepodge apartment, but that’s Sara.
“Wine?” she asks, gesturing to the bottle already breathing on the counter.
I shake my head. “Just water. I’m exhausted.” The truth is, I don’t like how wine softens my edges, makes my thoughts fuzzy and my tongue loose. I need to stay in control. Wine makes me say things I try to keep hidden.
We all know what to do without talking. Harper dishes up the stir-fry, I fill glasses with ice water, Sara folds napkins into perfect triangles. We’ve done this a hundred times before.
“How was your day?” I ask Sara as I spoon jasmine rice onto my plate, the steam rising and warming my face.
She launches into a story about a shih tzu who wouldn’t stop trembling during its exam, and an owner who was somehow even more anxious than the dog.
I nod and smile, but part of my brain is already drifting to my book waiting in my bedroom.
I’m at the good part where the hero finally admits he’s been in love with the heroine all along.
Harper’s laugh pulls me back to the present.
“—so Dr. Martinez had to very gently explain that dogs don’t actually need gluten-free diets unless they have a legitimate medical condition.”
I snort and take a bite. The stir-fry is perfect—spicy and savory and exactly what I needed. Harper’s bedroom might look like a tornado hit it, but the woman can cook like a dream.
“Oh!” Harper points her fork at me suddenly. “I almost forgot. You’ll never guess what I heard at The Daily Grind this morning.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly. “Mrs. Tate finally admitted her cat is possessed?”
Sara laughs. Harper shakes her head, her expression shifting into something more careful.
“Nope. Zayn Blackwell is back in town.”
My fork slips from my fingers and clatters against my plate. The sound echoes too loud in the sudden silence. Everything narrows down to those three words, repeating on a loop in my head.
Zayn Blackwell.
Zayn.
Five years might as well be five seconds.
Pressure builds behind my ribs, squeezing all the air from my lungs.
My pulse explodes, so violent I’m certain they can see it hammering beneath my shirt.
I’m drowning in memories I’ve spent years trying to bury—his dark hair falling across his forehead, those stormy eyes that saw too much, the ink covering his arms, his voice rough and sure when he whispered “always” against my skin.
One heartbeat. Two. Three.
I blink and force the world back into focus. I laugh, and it comes out too bright, too fake. “God, I haven’t heard that name in forever.” I grab my fork and swipe at the sauce I’ve splattered on the table. “That’s probably gossip. You know how this town is.”
My hands won’t stop trembling. I curl them tighter around my fork.
Harper and Sara look at each other in that way they do when they’re worried about me. Sara’s expression is gentle and sympathetic. Harper looks fierce and protective.
“It’s not gossip,” Harper says carefully, like she’s defusing a bomb. “Tara from the coffee shop saw him yesterday. Apparently he took a position at that law office downtown.”
“Oh,” I say, stuffing my mouth with food I can’t even taste. “Good for him.”
My ribcage feels two sizes too small. I’ve imagined this moment before—running into him at the grocery store, spotting him on the cliff path, hearing his name in passing. But the reality of it hits different. Harder. Real in a way my anxious fantasies never were.
“Sophie…” Sara starts, using that soft, careful tone that makes me want to scream.
“Hey, did you hear they’re finally breaking ground on that new dog park?” I interrupt, my voice suddenly cheerful. “Mia’s going to lose her mind. They’re doing separate areas for large and small breeds.”
Under the table, I trap my shaking hands between my knees, pressing them still. I smile. I nod along to whatever Sara says about her weekend plans. I compliment Harper’s cooking. I perform Normal Sophie while everything inside me cracks and splinters.
Five years, I think. Five years of putting myself back together, piece by piece, of learning how to function again, of training myself not to say his name, not to wonder what he’s doing, not to let myself imagine what might have been if he’d stayed.
And now he’s here.
Harper looks at me like she can see right through me. “You know we’ve got your back, right?” she says finally. “Whatever you need. Just say the word and I’ll slash his tires.”
I force out a laugh that almost sounds genuine. “Appreciate the offer, but unnecessary. Ancient history, remember?” I take another bite, chew, swallow, like a functional human being would. “So what movie are we watching this weekend? Please say something with explosions and zero romance.”
Just like that, I sidestep the grenade that’s rolled into our kitchen.
I wait until Harper’s music thumps through our shared wall and Sara’s shower hisses to life before I close my bedroom door.
The click of the latch feels final. Now I’m alone with all the thoughts I shoved down during dinner, all the feelings I performed my way around.
Zayn is back. Three simple words that shouldn’t matter after five years.
Three words that shouldn’t make my lungs feel too small for my chest.
Mia lifts her head from her bed in the corner, brown eyes tracking my movements with that uncanny dog intuition.
I sink onto my mattress and force myself to wait, listening to the symphony of apartment sounds—pipes groaning, bass thumping, the refrigerator’s steady hum—making absolutely sure no one will hear me before I move to my closet.
My hands know exactly where to go, muscle memory from doing this too many times.
Behind the stack of shoe boxes, past the winter sweaters I won’t need for months, to the back corner where one floorboard sits slightly loose.
I press down on one end and the other pops up with a soft creak.
I reach into the hollow space and pull out a wooden box roughly the size of a hardcover novel.
My brother, Reed, made it in high school shop class—plain pine with my name burned into the lid in wobbly letters.
He told me it was for jewelry, but I’ve never been much of a jewelry person.
I set the box on my lap. It feels heavier than it should, like it always does.
This box holds my past, all the pieces of myself I can’t seem to throw away even though keeping them feels like pressing on a bruise.
Everything else in my life is neat and in order—I don’t let myself feel too deeply or dwell on what hurts.
I keep moving forward, one foot in front of the other.
But this box? These things I can’t let go of no matter how much they ache.
Mia hops up beside me, the mattress dipping under her solid weight. She settles against my legs with a heavy sigh, resting her blocky head on my thigh like she knows I need the anchor. I take a deep breath and lift the lid.