Chapter 4
Avoiding Forever
I duck into the treatment room and press my back against the cold metal cabinet.
My fingers shake I can barely type coherently on my phone, autocorrect fixing every third word.
Harper needs to know. Someone has to know that my life just imploded in a coffee shop.
The sharp antiseptic smell burns my nostrils, grounding me in the present—I’m at work, surrounded by medical equipment and animal supplies.
But all I can hear is his voice saying my name, playing on repeat in my head like a song I can’t turn off.
OMG Harper. I saw him. At The Daily Grind. Zayn. He was THERE. He SAW me. He said my name. I can't breathe.
The message sends with a soft whoosh. Three dots appear immediately. Harper’s at the gym, probably between training clients. She knows it’s serious if she’s responding this fast.
WHAT HAPPENED??? Are you okay??? Do you need me to come there??
I stare at her text. Am I okay? My pulse still races out of control. The coffee I dumped on myself earlier has dried into a stiff brown stain shaped vaguely like Italy.
I'm fine. At work. Just needed to tell someone.
Complete lie. I’m the opposite of fine. But what am I supposed to say?
That seeing him made me feel eighteen again for one terrible, wonderful moment?
That I hate how good he looks now—even better than I remember?
That the sound of him saying my name cracked open every emotion I’ve spent years trying to bury?
LIAR. You're not fine. Nobody's fine after seeing their ex. Especially THAT ex.
I slide down the cabinet until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to my chest. The tile is ice-cold through my scrubs. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, making everything look harsh and exposed. Nothing feels right.
I can hear the familiar rhythms of the clinic through the door—phones ringing, Jen’s cheerful voice greeting clients, the click of dog nails on linoleum.
These sounds usually comfort me, make me feel at home.
But right now they seem muffled and distant, like I’m underwater and everyone else is on the surface living their normal lives.
I need to get up. I need to prep vaccines for Dr. Martinez’s morning appointments. I need to act normal and not like someone whose entire world tilted sideways because her ex looked devastatingly good in a suit and smelled like expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely him.
My phone buzzes again.
Sophie. TALK TO ME. What did he say? Did he follow you? Do I need to kill him?
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, surprising me.
Harper’s protective streak runs deep and violent.
She still fantasizes about keying Jake’s car for getting engaged three months after we broke up.
And Jake barely scratched the surface of my heart.
Not like Zayn, who carved his name so deep I’m still bleeding.
He just said my name. That's it. I ran out like a coward.
I push myself off the floor on unsteady legs.
Focus, Sophie. Work now, fall apart later.
I pull vaccines from the refrigerator and line them up in appointment order.
The small glass vials clink together because my hands refuse to steady.
I’ve done this exact routine a thousand times over three years.
I could do it blindfolded. But today, even the simplest tasks feel impossible.
Why does it still hurt this much?
I check the schedule on the wall-mounted tablet. First appointment in fifteen minutes. Baxter, golden retriever, three years old. Just rabies and distemper shots. Simple.
I start preparing syringes, trying to focus on the steps.
Draw back the plunger. Insert into vial.
Check for air bubbles. My hands keeps trembling that I have to brace my wrist against the counter edge to keep steady.
This is ridiculous. I’ve handled aggressive cats, scared dogs, even a ferret that bit clean through my thumbnail.
But knowing Zayn is back in Bellrose has reduced me to this shaky mess.
My phone vibrates again.
Want me to come there? I can cancel my 10:30.
No. I'm FINE. Really. Just shocked, that's all.
The clock reads 8:50. Ten minutes until Baxter arrives. I need to pull myself together before then.
I lay out soft gauze squares, alcohol wipes, and treat bags.
The exam table shines under the overhead lights, stainless steel cool and clean.
I mentally rehearse the routine—greet Baxter and his owner, check weight, escort to exam room two, assist Dr. Martinez with vaccines, dispense treats for good behavior.
Easy. Normal. Something I do every single day without thinking.
But my mind keeps replaying the coffee shop like footage stuck on loop. How Zayn filled the doorway with his presence. How those tempest eyes found me across a room full of people like I was the only person there. How my body recognized him before my brain caught up.
The door swings open and I nearly jump out of my skin. Dr. Martinez breezes in, eyes on her tablet. She glances up.
“Morning, Sophie. Baxter’s our first appointment—” She stops mid-sentence, concern crossing her face. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, too brightly. “Just didn’t sleep well last night. Spilled coffee all over myself this morning. You know how it is.”
Dr. Martinez studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes missing nothing. “Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t press, which is one of the many reasons I love working for her. “Let’s get ready for Baxter, then.”
I nod and turn back to my vaccine lineup. Dr. Martinez moves through the room checking supplies and humming softly under her breath. She radiates calm while I’m barely holding it together.
The front bell chimes. Baxter and his owner have arrived. I hear Jen’s cheerful greeting, hear Baxter’s excited bark echo through the waiting room. Showtime.
Dr. Martinez and I head to the exam room. I move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over. I smile at Mrs. Parker, scratch behind Baxter’s silky ears, help hoist his wiggling body onto the scale. These familiar motions temporarily quiet the chaos in my head.
“Eighty-four pounds,” I announce, recording the number. “Up two pounds from his last visit.”
Dr. Martinez nods and starts checking Baxter over—feeling his belly, looking in his ears and eyes, examining his teeth and gums. I stand ready with the shots, waiting for my cue.
“Everything looks excellent,” Dr. Martinez tells Mrs. Parker warmly. “We’ll administer his rabies and combination vaccine today, and he’ll be good for another year.”
That’s my signal. I step forward to hand Dr. Martinez the first syringe. But as her fingers reach for it, mine release too early. The small glass vial slips from my grasp, hits the edge of the metal table, and shatters across the floor. The crash sounds deafening in the small room.
Everyone startles—me, Dr. Martinez, Mrs. Parker, even Baxter, who barks like someone stepped on his paw.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, staring at the mess spreading across the white tile like spilled water. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what—”
But that’s another lie. I know exactly what happened. My hands are shaking because of Zayn Blackwell. I can’t focus on my job because I keep hearing his voice. Five years since he walked away, and I’m still falling apart over him. I hate myself for it.
Dr. Martinez’s hand settles warm and steady on my shoulder. “These things happen, mija. Go grab the cleanup kit. I’ll handle Baxter’s vaccines.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to escape. My face burns with humiliation. I never make mistakes like this.
“And Sophie?” Dr. Martinez calls as I reach the door. “Take an early lunch today. Get some fresh air, clear your head.” Her tone is gentle but firm. She knows something’s seriously wrong.
I nod again and slip out, not trusting my voice to cooperate.
In the hallway, I lean against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut.
The fluorescent lights bleed red through my eyelids.
Years of learning to keep everything under control.
Then he walks back into my orbit for thirty seconds and I’m falling apart all over again.
And the most pathetic part? I don’t even know if it’s because I still love him or because I’m terrified of finding out I do.
The fresh air feels good after being inside the clinic all morning. It smells like salt and fish instead of antiseptic and pet shampoo. I zip my jacket up higher as the cold fog touches my face. My hands are still shaking, but out here, nobody can see me losing it. I can blame it on the cold.
I head toward the boats, watching them bump gently against the dock.
Water splashes against their sides in a rhythm I know by heart.
Seagulls squawk overhead. My sneakers make hollow sounds on the wet wooden boardwalk.
Up ahead, an old fisherman mends his nets, his hands moving quickly like he’s done it a million times.
I look at my phone. Harper has texted me five times asking if I’m okay, if I need her to come, if I’ve seen him again. I should text back, but I can’t feel my fingers well enough. What would I even tell her? That seeing him broke the lie I’ve been telling myself—that I’m over him?
Fog wraps around me as I walk, muffling the harbor sounds. It feels good, like a soft barrier between me and everything else. I take deep breaths of the salty air. In, out. In, out. Just breathe. My racing heart should slow down if I keep breathing like this.
I find a bench by the main dock and sink onto it. I can see fishing boats returning with their morning catch, small vessels tied up and bobbing in place, and far off, the lighthouse keeper making his way home after his shift. Just normal life in my town. Normal people doing normal things.
A seabird suddenly dives into the water with a splash and surfaces with a fish thrashing in its beak. I flinch at the sudden movement, my nerves stretched too thin. I close my eyes, trying to settle down.
A door opens across the street. My eyes snap open, and the world seems to tilt.
Zayn walks out of the courthouse into the fog.
He’s wearing a dark suit that fits him like it was made for him, polished black shoes catching what little light filters through the mist. I can only catch glimpses of his tattoos peeking out at his collar and wrapping around his fingers.
His dark hair is styled, nothing like the messy hair I used to run my fingers through.
He looks like he stepped out of a movie—the reformed bad boy in an expensive suit.
I stand up fast, turning away. I can’t face him right now. Not in my stained work clothes with messy hair and emotions I can barely control. If he says my name again, I might fall apart completely.
I move too quickly. My foot catches on a loose board and I stumble. My hands hit the wet wood first, then my knees. Sharp pain shoots up my arms as the rough surface scrapes my palms raw.
“Sophie!”
No. No, no, no. His voice is too close. He saw me fall. He’s coming over. I push myself up to sitting, staring at my hands. They’re scraped up, tiny pieces of wood stuck in them.
I hear footsteps, then they stop. I look up to see him there, standing close enough to talk but far enough that I can breathe. Even panicking, I notice he’s being careful, giving me the space I need.
“Are you okay?” His voice is deeper, rough with concern.
“I’m fine,” I say right away, wiping my hands on my scrubs even though it stings. A few drops of blood smear across the blue fabric. Great. Now I have coffee stains and blood. I look like a complete disaster.
“You’re bleeding.” He takes half a step forward, then catches himself and stops.
“It’s nothing.” I stand up, brushing wet splinters from my knees. My palms throb. My pride hurts worse. “What do you want, Zayn?”
His name feels foreign in my mouth. Like I shouldn’t be allowed to say it. Like saying it might resurrect all the feelings I’ve tried so hard to bury.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” he says quietly. The fog drifts between us, making him look almost unreal.
“Got a new number.” I cross my arms, trying to ignore the sting in my palms. “There’s nothing to talk about anyway.”
He looks down at his expensive shoes, then back up at me. His eyes are exactly how I remember—like the ocean during a storm. “I think we have plenty to talk about.”
“Five years too late for that.” My voice comes out stronger than I feel. Good.
A boat horn sounds somewhere far off in the fog, mournful and lonely. Zayn shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pockets. The suit fits him perfectly now, not like when he was younger and suits always looked like he was playing dress-up.
“I moved back to Bellrose,” he says carefully. “For good. I took a position at Hargrove & Associates.”
His words land like a physical blow. I knew he was back since last night but hearing him say “for good” makes my heart hurt. That small part of me that still cares—the same part that keeps our old photo hidden under my floorboards—feels a dangerous flicker of hope.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but he must see something in my eyes because he takes another step closer, like he can sense my defenses cracking.
“I stopped caring about your plans five years ago,” I say, but my voice wavers at the end.
I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “I need to get back to work.”
I try to walk past him, hugging the opposite rail of the narrow boardwalk. But I still catch his scent—expensive cologne, woodsy and rich, nothing like the cheap body wash smell from before.
“Sophie,” he says as I pass. “I’m not giving up.”
I keep walking, not looking back, but his words follow me through the fog.
Why now? Why come back now, when I’ve finally convinced myself I’m over him? When I’m dating nice, safe guys who can’t hurt me because I never let them close enough? When I’ve built my entire life around schedules and sure things and staying away from exactly these kinds of messy feelings?
As I turn the corner toward the clinic, memories ambush me. Zayn whispering “always” against my skin. The way his hands cradled my face like I was something precious. Our tearful goodbye when he chose Seattle and his career over us. The ache that never really left, that I’ve learned to live around.
The fog feels cool and damp against my overheated face. I only realize I’m crying when I taste salt on my lips and can’t tell if it’s tears or sea spray.
This isn’t some romance novel. The guy doesn’t come back after years and fix everything by showing up. Real life doesn’t work that way. Hearts don’t work that way.