Chapter 52 Eight Years in One Day
AMANDA
When I open the door the next morning, Kade is leaning against the frame like he’s been there for hours. He’s in dark jeans, a white tee, sunglasses hooked in the collar, and that smug little curve to his mouth that says he knows he’s winning before we’ve even started.
“Ready?” he asks.
“For what, exactly?” I cross my arms.
“Our date,” he says, like it’s obvious. “One stop for every year I wasn’t around.”
“You’re not actually serious.”
“You’re going to love it.” He glances past me into my apartment. “Go grab your bag, baby doll. It’s going to be a long day.”
NOW
The rooftop café in Chelsea feels like a secret floating above the city. Mismatched chairs surround tables made from reclaimed wood, and basil plants sprout from dented tin cans. Our iced lattes arrive in mason jars that catch the morning light.
“This place opened last month,” Kade says, settling into a chair that’s definitely made from recycled pallets.
“I’ve never been here.”
“That’s the point. First stop is the present, something we discover together.” He leans forward, and the sunlight catches his eyes. “The rest? You’ll know them all too well.”
My stomach flutters, but I can’t quite identify the feeling. It’s not exactly nerves. Anticipation, maybe?
“You’re being cryptic on purpose.”
“I’m being romantic.”
“Since when do you do romance?”
His laugh rumbles low. “Since I spent eight years learning how to love you better.”
I focus on my latte instead of the way his voice drops when he says things like that.
I swallow down the pointed remark I could make.
The one where I say that while he was spending eight years learning to love me better, I was spending eight years wondering if I was worthy of love.
I take a sip. The coffee tastes like summer and second chances.
“This is nice,” I admit, watching steam rise from the sidewalk below. “Very… normal.”
“Normal’s underrated.” He pauses, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
“I didn’t have much normal during those years.
Everything felt like I was underwater, moving through someone else’s life.
But I’d think about mornings like this. Coffee with you.
Sunlight. Simple things that felt impossible. ”
The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard. It makes me realize that I want to know what Kade’s life was like during those years. I’ve been so focused on what our time apart did to me that I hadn’t really thought about what it felt like for him. “What was it like? Really?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I can see him deciding how much to share. “Lonely. Violent sometimes. I’d be in some compound in Colombia or a safe house in Prague, and I’d pull up the cameras just to watch your morning routine. It kept me human.”
The words land somewhere between my ribs and my heart. “That’s…” I search for the right word. “Sad.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
“Then what’s it meant to be?”
“Love, Amanda. That’s what love looks like when it doesn’t have permission to be close.
” He leans forward, and something in his expression makes my chest tight.
“I know you tap your nails in patterns when you’re bored.
I know you save the best bite of food for last.” His expression turns almost sad when he says, “And I know you unconsciously touch that scar on your forearm when you’re anxious. ”
“You’re literally such a stalker,” I whisper, but there’s no real accusation in it as I pull my fingers away from my forearm scar.
His expression morphs back into slightly teasing. “Guilty. And I’m just getting started. I’ve got eight years of noticing you stored up. Think you can handle it?”
“Eight years’ worth?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
“Every single day.” He reaches across the table and brushes his thumb across my knuckles. “I couldn’t be the husband you deserved then. But I never stopped being yours.”
The city bustles below us while I process this. Horns honk, and people shout, and life moves forward like it always does. But up here, surrounded by basil plants and mason jars, time feels suspended.
“Why start with something new?” I finally ask.
“Because I wanted one memory that belongs to just us. Right now. No ghosts, no regrets, no what-ifs.” He holds my hand across the table. “Just you and me and overpriced coffee.”
His fingers are warm when they close around mine. Callused in places that speak of hard work and harder choices. I should pull away. I should ask more questions. I should do a lot of things that aren’t sitting here falling for him all over again.
The sun climbs higher while we finish our drinks. He pays the check with cash and tips the server more than our entire bill. When I raise an eyebrow, he shrugs.
“Workers at new places need all the help they can get.”
Another piece of him I hadn’t expected. The man who disappears for eight years but still tips baristas like their rent depends on it.
I can’t quite wrap my head around it. He knows everything there is to know about me.
Meanwhile, I don’t even know his favorite food.
Don’t know his middle name or whether he’s allergic to anything or what his scars from the accident look like.
“I want to know you, too,” I say suddenly.
“What?”
“You know everything about me. My habits and my tells and probably what I had for breakfast last Tuesday. But I don’t know anything real about you. I want to change that.” My words come out almost desperate, but that’s suddenly how I feel. Desperate and aching for connection.
Something shifts in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Like he hadn’t considered that this road runs in both directions.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Start with your favorite food. What is it?”
“Sushi when I’m trying to look cool.” He pauses. “Grilled cheese if I’m being honest.”
“See? I didn’t know that.” I steal a piece of his croissant. “Middle name?”
“James. After my grandfather.”
“Allergies?”
“Shellfish. Found out the hard way in Thailand.”
“Scars?” I ask, not needing to elaborate.
His hand instinctively closes. “A lot of them. Not all of them physical.”
“Show me?” I whisper.
He opens his palm, and for the first time, I see a large jagged mark running across his palm.
I reach out for it and run my thumb across it. He closes his eyes briefly at the touch.
“I want to know all of it. The big stuff and the stupid stuff. Your favorite color and your worst fear and whether you sing in the shower.”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“We’ve got time.”
His lips lift, and his face morphs into a genuine smile. “Yeah, baby doll. We’ve got time.” He stands and offers me his hand. “Ready for the next stop?”
I look at his outstretched palm. At the motorcycle waiting below. At the promise of more revelations I’m not sure I’m ready for.
“Do I have a choice?”
“The yes is yours to give.”
“That’s what scares me.”
I take his hand anyway.
YEAR EIGHT
Brooklyn’s weekend market buzzes with controlled chaos I used to thrive on. Vintage jewelry catches sunlight while vendors hawk everything from homemade soap to artisanal hot sauce.
“You and Raven had a booth here for three months when she moved back to the city,” Kade says, steering me toward a corner spot. “Selling vintage designer pieces.”
“The Thrift Queens!” I laugh. “We made exactly forty-seven dollars and spent it all on funnel cake. It was a fun way for us to reconnect.”
A woman with purple hair behind the jewelry booth grins at me. “Amanda! Where have you been? And where’s your sister?”
While I catch up with Luna, Kade browses through her jewelry display. His fingers hover over delicate silver pieces as I explain that our new thrifting endeavor is Dress for Success.
“These.” He holds up earrings shaped like tiny crescents. Silver catches the light and throws little rainbows across his scarred palm.
“Those are beautiful, but I don’t really wear—”
“Silver?” Luna interrupts with a knowing smile. “Honey, not everything has to be pink.”
My automatic protest dies in my throat. She’s right. They are beautiful. Delicate without being fragile. Different from my usual statement pieces.
“You stared at them for ten minutes last time you were here,” Kade says quietly. “Picked them up twice but put them back.”
“You weren’t even there last time I was here.”
“Wasn’t I?” He’s quiet for a moment, then continues, softer.
“I was between assignments. Just back from Bogotá. Hadn’t slept in about thirty hours but couldn’t get myself to fall asleep.
I came here and stood by the empanada truck watching you and Raven laugh over ugly sweaters.
” His thumb traces the crescent moon. “You picked these up, and I thought, she’s still in there.
The girl who loved things just because they were beautiful, not because they made a statement. ”
Luna pretends not to eavesdrop.
“You were here? That close?” I ask.
“Close enough to see that you were healing. Far enough that I couldn’t mess it up again.
” He looks at me, and there’s pain in his eyes.
“Watching you live was the only thing that kept me from becoming a monster. Every kill, every lie, every terrible thing I had to do—I’d come back to these cameras, to you, and remember what it felt like to be human. ”
My throat tightens. “Kade…”
“It’s okay to like things that aren’t pink,” he murmurs while Luna rings up the purchase. “You’re beautiful in every color.”
I feel at a loss for words. Pink has been my signature for so long I forgot I used to love other colors. Silver was my favorite before I decided I needed to be louder, brighter, more noticeable to matter.
Luna hands me the small bag, but I shake my head. “Can I put them on now?”
She grins and pulls out a mirror while I remove my usual pink hoops. The silver moons feel cool against my skin. Light where I’m used to bold. Whisper-soft where I usually shout.
In the mirror, they catch the light and make my eyes look brighter. Different.
“Perfect,” Kade says, and his voice carries something deeper than simple approval.