Now #2
“Me neither. But she’s doing much better. She has a job in one of the shops in town. And she lives in a proper house—near where yours was, actually. Are your parents still there?”
“No. I bought them a house in the Denver suburbs.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“It’s the least I could do.”
“How are they doing?”
“They’re okay. They often ask about you.”
“Oh …”
“I didn’t have much to tell them until recently. My mom’s glad we’re talking again. She always liked you. You were the daughter she never had.”
Evie smiles sheepishly. “My mom liked you, too. Actually, she had this on her fridge when I went earlier.”
She reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a Polaroid photo that she hands me. When I look, I immediately recognize our outfits. “Homecoming …”
“My first school dance.”
“Our first real date. The evening this whole thing started,” I recall, motioning at the plates between us.
“Up until that point, it was the best night of my life.”
“Mine too. But then we had many best nights together, didn’t we?”
She nods, mindlessly playing with a piece of red velvet cake with her spoon. When I motion to hand her the picture back, she shakes her head.
“You can keep it. I don’t … I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to have it. With Nathan and everything.”
I want to argue that her marrying someone else doesn’t mean she should erase our past. But getting to have this picture, like a keepsake, sounds better than her shoving it into a box somewhere and never letting it see the light of day again—as she’s doing with her wedding ring.
So, I say nothing and carefully slip it into my pocket.
We eat as much as we can, drink most of our milkshakes, then ask the waitress to bag it all up.
The ride back to the garage, to her car, is quiet. This might be the last time we do something like this. She’ll have her lawyer file the papers soon, which means we’ve shared our last dinner.
I step out once we’re parked and walk around to open her door. Then, I follow her to her car, not ready to let go yet. She puts the bag with the leftovers in the backseat, then stands by the driver’s door.
“Thank you for the throwback dinner, Jax.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for agreeing to it.”
“Of course.”
With the garage closed, there’s nothing but the streetlight fifty feet away. We’re in semi-darkness, which gives the impression that we’re alone, cut off from the rest of the world.
Apparently, she’s as reluctant as I am to put an end to this evening, because she makes no move to get into her car.
“Will you be watching me in Miami?” I ask to delay the moment a little longer.
“Probably. It’s an easy time zone, so my friends and I might gather in that sports bar again and watch you win yet another race.”
“I’ll try not to be bored during the third quarter.”
“I’ll let you know if I notice.”
Her hands are fidgeting together, which she always does when she’s nervous. I can feel it too—the tension between us. But mine doesn’t show like hers. It sits heavily in the back of my throat instead. And my palms become more clammy by the second. Years. I haven’t had sweaty palms in fucking years.
When she gazes up at me, I recognize the expression in those pretty eyes. Despite the darkness, I see the longing, the need, the want. This is bad. This is really fucking bad.
I should have answered when she first sent the divorce papers. I should have signed them and been done with this. It would have been so much better than seeing her and remembering why I was so damn in love with her, only to lose her again, this time to another man.
But she’s right, she isn’t mine, and she hasn’t been in a while. I hold no power over her decisions. She’s free to marry whoever the fuck she wants, even if he’s the most boring tool I’ve ever met.
Maybe I’ll meet someone else one day. Someone good enough to erase the painful memory of my first love. But I doubt it. It’s unlikely that anyone out there would have me fighting this fucking hard not to bend down and press my lips on hers.
My entire career is built on my ability to restrain myself, to make tactical decisions, to calculate and control every single move. But none of that is worth anything when she looks at me this way—like she needs me to do what I crave.
I’m not in control of myself when I bend down, starved for her lips. But I stop two-thirds of the way in. She takes in a quick, shocked breath, but doesn’t move. In fact, she subtly angles her face in a way that gives me better access.
I can’t do this. It’ll already hurt like a bitch when the divorce comes through. I’m not adding this to the pain of it.
So, instead of aiming for her lips, I lay a soft kiss on her cheek. Her sigh grazes against my ear, but I can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment.
“Good night, Evie,” I whisper. “Take care of yourself.”
She doesn’t answer. Not then, and not when I straighten up.
In fact, she says nothing at all, even as I walk back to my car.
Not as I lower into my seat. Not as I drive by her, out of the parking lot.
She stands by her door the whole time, watching me in silence.
It’s only as I drive away that I see her turn around in my mirror and open her door to get in.
This feels like the second time I’m losing her, even though I never won her back.
And I fucking hate losing.
Evangeline
Rarely in my life have I felt as tormented as I do during the drive back home.
Everything is a jumbled mess in my head, and I can’t discern the past from the present anymore.
My feelings are all over the place, and I can’t see which future lies ahead of me.
It used to be so clear, first with Jackson, then with Nate.
But there’s nothing left now. Only desolation.
When I pull up into my driveway and see my fiancé’s car, I let out a long sigh and mumble, “Fudge …”
I can’t do this right now. I can’t see him. Not after the evening I just spent with Jax.
But it’s not like I have anywhere else to go. This is my house. My bed is right there, and I want to dive headfirst into it and never come out.
So, I grab my things, pick up the bag of leftovers on the backseat, and exit the car.
“There you are,” Nathan greets me as I enter.
He’s in the kitchen, where two glasses of wine await. Next to them, a plastic tray with eight neatly organized cake slices of various colors and fillings.
“What are you doing here, Nate?” I ask.
“Well, I thought we could try the cakes, even if it’s a little late. The baker said we need to try them today, before they dry up.”
I set the diner bag on the counter near the glasses, and he asks, “What’s that?”
“Leftover desserts.”
“Oh … I guess you’ve had your fill of sweets, then. How was your mom?”
“She was okay.”
“What did you two do tonight? You were supposed to return early.”
It’s as though I’m too exhausted to come up with another deception. It’s been white lie after white lie for weeks, and all of that has built up to a huge, unforgivable betrayal. And I feel so done with it.
That’s probably why I say, “I wasn’t with her.”
“What?”
“I ran into Jackson. We went to the diner where we used to hang out and ordered desserts.”
Nate takes a long, intense moment to process what I said and asks, “You hung out with him the whole evening?”
“We worked on his old car for a while first. Then we had dinner.”
“Oh, that’s why you’re all dirty.”