Chapter 14 Brynn
Chapter fourteen
Brynn
The barstool wobbles beneath me as I shift, trying to pretend I haven’t been sitting here for nearly twenty minutes.
I glance down at my phone again. Still nothing.
Not even a “running late” text from my date, Eric.
The cat dad. The one who “has a great job at the bank” and, according to my mother, is “emotionally available and doesn’t wear toe shoes. ” High praise.
The bartender swings by and gestures toward my half-empty glass. “Another mojito?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Make it strong.”
He grins like he’s heard that line too many times tonight and starts muddling lime and sugar with the efficiency of a man used to Tuesday-night letdowns.
I exhale slowly and glance toward the door again. Still no sign of a man who looks like he names his playlists after scented candles and pet rescue hashtags.
But instead of Eric the Gentle Loan Officer, the door swings open—and in walks Knox Dalton.
Wearing a soft navy button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Jeans that fit a little too well.
Hair freshly trimmed and pushed back in that effortless way that makes me irrationally angry.
His expression? Somewhere between confused and haunted, like he just walked into a surprise party hosted by all his exes.
He spots me immediately and pauses behind the empty stool beside mine.
I blink. “Seriously?”
His mouth twitches. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Let me guess,” I say as he slides onto the stool beside me. “Random Tuesday-night craving for overpriced cocktails and personal regret?”
“Blind date,” he says, glancing sideways.
My stomach dips. “What?”
“Supposed to meet someone here. Lindsey. Friend of my mom’s cousin. Has a dog named Muffin.”
I stare at him. “I’m waiting on Eric. Banker. Owns a cat named Biscuit.”
We look at each other. Then away. Then back again.
He mutters something under his breath. I take a long sip of my drink.
“You think…?” I start.
“I’m not even going to say it,” he replies. “Saying it makes it real.”
“They wouldn’t.”
His look says he knows exactly what they are capable of.
He signals for a beer, settling into his seat. “It’s a little suspicious, though. Same bar. Same night. Two mysteriously absent dates?”
“I thought Biscuit was code for social anxiety,” I murmur.
He laughs under his breath. It’s not a full laugh, but it’s familiar in a way that shouldn’t still feel like comfort.
We sit quietly for a beat, both nursing drinks and pointedly avoiding eye contact. Eventually, he nudges his bottle closer to mine.
“Well…we’re already here.”
I glance sideways. “Are you trying to salvage the night?”
His eyes flicker. “Are you saying you don’t want to?”
Damn him.
I shrug, playing it cool. “Fine. But I’m picking the appetizer.”
Knox
She orders fried pickles. Of course she does.
Brynn always went for salty, crunchy things when she was nervous. I can see it now—the way she fidgets with her straw, eyes flicking toward the door like Eric the Emotionally Available might still show up and save her from this accidental reunion.
But I’m not letting her off the hook that easily.
“So.” I take a slow sip of beer. “Eric. Real person, you think?”
She snorts. “My mom swore he was great. Even sent a picture. He had that smile—like he needed everyone around him to validate his existence.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Tell me about it.”
I nod. “Lindsey was supposedly into hiking and ‘talking about feelings.’ Whatever that means.”
Her head tilts. “So clearly our mothers are working together.”
“One hundred percent. Probably drinking wine and high-fiving right now.”
She grins. “And texting memes about us.”
She laughs and rests her cheek against her hand. Her elbow on the bar, her eyes shining under the low amber lighting. God help me, I missed that sound.
“They know us too well,” I say.
Her smile fades just a little. “Yeah. They do.”
It hits me at that moment how easy this is.
How it still feels natural to sit next to her and trade sarcasm.
How her laugh still does something dangerous to my chest. I want to know everything all over again.
What she listens to when she can’t sleep.
What her mornings look like now. Who broke her heart.
I clear my throat. “Do you ever talk to him?” I ask. “The guy you were engaged to?”
Wrong move.
Her posture stiffens. She pulls back, reaching for her glass like it might protect her.
“No,” she says flatly.
I don’t press. I want to. I want to rip that whole story out of her, demanding to know why he let her go. But I can feel the wall slam into place—same as always. Clean. Final.
I nod once. “Okay.”
She sets her drink down carefully. “So...how was practice?”
By our second round, the sting has worn off just enough to find easier conversation.
We shift to safer ground: Cedar Falls. Who’s pregnant, who got promoted, who’s still showing up at alumni games like they’re twenty-two and not nursing back pain.
I pretend not to care, but I still keep track of my completion record from high school.
She talks about her job, throwing in just enough sarcasm to keep it entertaining.
She’s still sharp. Still fast. But there’s a new edge now, like life’s trimmed away some softness and left something stronger behind.
We’re not drunk, but we’re definitely loose. Loose enough to lean closer. To let our knees brush. To linger too long in glances that feel like second chances.
The bartender flicks on the lights. Universal signal: last call, time to go. We both ignore it. I order another round, and she clinks her glass to mine.
“To meddling mothers,” she says.
“And cats with commitment issues,” I reply, grinning as our fingers brush during the toast. She doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
When it’s time to leave, she insists she can call her own ride. I wave her off—I’ve already ordered the car. She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches at the corners. She likes when I don’t give in. Always has.
I help her into her jacket. When I pull it around her shoulders, my hand grazes her hip. She freezes—just a fraction of a second—but I feel it. That jolt. That recognition. The history hanging in the air between us like fog.
Outside, the cold bites, sharp and clear. We slide into the back of the car, our legs brushing again. Neither of us moves away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just full. Like we’re both trying not to remember how well we used to fit. How easy it would be to lean in. To let it happen.
She keeps sneaking glances. I can feel them—like heat on my jaw, on my lips. And I know if I look at her, I’ll kiss her. And if I kiss her, I won’t want to stop.
We pull into the driveway. The garage light flicks on, revealing too much in its clean white glow. We step out slowly, neither in a hurry to break the moment.
She turns to me, her breath visible in the air between us. “Thanks,” she says softly. “For tonight.”
I nod. “Thanks for not bailing when you saw me.”
Her lips tilt up. Not quite a smile. But not a rejection either.
We stand there, both holding keys, both frozen in the space between memory and hesitation. One step closer, and I could kiss her right here. Like we’re nineteen again. Like nothing ever broke between us.
But we’re not nineteen anymore. And I know exactly how this story ends.
“Goodnight, Knox.”
“Night, Bunny.”
She turns and walks to her door, hips swaying with the kind of quiet confidence that guarantees I won’t sleep tonight.
The lock clicks shut behind her, and I’m left standing in the cold, wrapped in the kind of silence that settles deep.
One set up, one lingering glance, and suddenly I’m right back where I swore I wouldn’t be.
Remembering exactly how much I wanted her, and realizing I never really stopped.
And the worst part is, I don’t think I remember how to stay away.