Chapter 17
I should leave.
That thought hits me three separate times in the first two minutes after Jimmy realizes what just happened, and somehow I still don’t.
Maybe because my legs feel unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with the heels I’m still wearing.
Maybe because I’m still trying to catch up to my own body.
Maybe because for one suspended, impossible stretch of time in that office, everything I’ve wanted from him for years had finally felt close enough to touch.
And then he ruined it.
Not all at once. That would almost be easier. It would be easier if he’d said something cruel, or looked disgusted, or gone cold in a clean, obvious way I could package up and hate him for later.
Instead, it’s worse than that.
He looks wrecked. Tense. Furious. Shaken. Like the floor just dropped out from under him and he doesn’t know whether to catch me or run from the crater.
And somehow, standing in the middle of my office with my heart still trying to slow down and my skin still buzzing with the aftermath of everything that just happened, I realize I hate that almost more than if he’d just been an asshole.
Because I don’t need him horrified. I need him honest.
He’s still standing too close when I finally force myself to step back.
That’s what breaks the moment more than anything else.
The fact that I’m the one creating space.
Jimmy’s hands fall away from me like he only just remembered they were there, and the second they do, the room feels colder than it did a minute ago.
His chest is rising hard under his shirt.
His jaw is locked. His eyes keep moving over my face and then away again like he doesn’t trust himself to settle on any one thought too long without it getting ugly.
“Jimmy,” I say quietly.
He drags a hand over his face like the sound of his own name coming from me makes things worse instead of better. “Jesus Christ.”
There it is again.
That tone. Not anger at me exactly. But not not anger either. Something messy and male and badly controlled that instantly starts eating at the warm, shaky little finally I’d been holding onto in my chest.
Because for a second there…for one stupid, reckless, perfect second—
I’d had him.
Not in some soft, romantic, movie-scene kind of way. Not in the way I used to daydream about when I was younger and dumber and still thought the world gave a damn if your timing was good enough.
I just mean I’d had the truth. Raw and ugly and impossible to deny.
All the years of tension. All the looks. All the moments that never quite tipped into anything but still somehow meant too much.
For a second, none of it had been in question.
And now he’s standing there acting like the walls are closing in.
I hate it.
I hate how fast the high burns off and leaves me standing in the wreckage of what this actually is.
“Can you not do that?” I ask.
His head lifts. “Do what?”
“That.” I gesture between us, then immediately wish I hadn’t because now I feel too exposed, too aware of my own body, too aware of him. “Act like the sky is falling.”
His expression darkens. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away.
Exactly.
I fold my arms over my chest more for something to do than modesty, because at this point modesty feels a little late to the party. “Jimmy.”
“Allie.” He says my name at the exact same time.
We both stop.
Then he mutters, “You first.”
I almost laugh.
Because the absurdity of that, of us standing here in the aftermath of the most inevitable bad decision of my life and somehow still managing to trip over each other in conversation—would be funny if it didn’t feel like my ribs were caving in one by one.
I wet my lips and say the first thing that comes out. “It’s not a big deal.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I should’ve said literally anything else.
Jimmy’s head snaps toward me. “Not a big deal?”
I lift one shoulder, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to brittle. “I’m just saying, you don’t need to act like—”
“Like what, Allie?” There’s heat in his voice now. Too much of it.
I should probably be more careful with my next words.
I’m not.
“Like I’m made of glass.”
His laugh is sharp and humorless. “That what you think this is?”
I stare at him. “I don’t know what this is,” I shoot back. “That’s kind of the problem.”
That lands. Hard enough that he goes still.
Good.
Because I’m not the only one standing here trying not to come apart. I’m not the only one who gets to be knocked sideways by this.
He takes a breath like he’s trying to rein himself in and failing by inches. “You should’ve told me.”
There it is. The thing underneath all of this. The thing he’s circling instead of saying cleanly.
My spine goes stiff. “Told you what?”
His eyes flash. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I hold his stare for a second too long, because I do know. Of course I know.
But I also know the second I give that thing a shape, the second I hand it over and let him say it plainly, I’m not going to like what comes next.
So I make him say it. “Use your words, Jimmy.”
He lets out a harsh breath through his nose and looks like he wants to put his fist through the wall.
Instead, he says, “You should’ve told me that I was your first.”
The room goes silent around us.
Not literally. There’s still muffled music outside the office door, footsteps in the hallway, voices drifting in and out from the main floor.
But inside me?
Silence.
Because there it is now. No more skirting around it. No more pretending we’re talking about anything else. And the worst part is not that he said it.
The worst part is the way he said it.
Like it’s a disaster. Like it’s a mess. Like it’s a problem to solve instead of something that just…was.
A slow, ugly embarrassment starts crawling up my throat. I force it down. “I didn’t think I needed to make a formal announcement,” I say.
He looks at me like he can’t decide whether to yell or start pacing. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“Then why the hell are you acting like this is nothing?”
Because if I don’t, I’m going to humiliate myself.
Because if I let myself stand here and admit how much this mattered to me, how long I’ve wanted him, how much it hurts to have him finally and still somehow feel like I’m begging for scraps.
I’m going to lose whatever tiny bit of pride I’ve got left.
So I square my shoulders and say the truth in the ugliest, flattest version of itself. “Because it’s not exactly shocking, Jimmy.”
He blinks once. “What?”
I laugh softly, but there’s nothing light in it. “You really think I’ve had a lot of opportunities?”
His brows pull together, and for one second he just looks at me like he genuinely doesn’t understand what I’m saying.
That almost pisses me off more than anything else tonight. So I spell it out. “I tried,” I say, voice steadier now that I’ve started. “In case you were wondering. I did actually attempt to have a life at some point.”
His jaw tightens.
I keep going because now that the dam’s cracked, I’m not sure I can stop. “I tried dating in high school. I tried talking to guys. I tried doing normal teenage girl things and being at least a little rebellious, because believe it or not, I wasn’t born forty years old and responsible.”
“Allie—”
“No, let me finish.”
He actually stops talking.
Good. Because I’m not done.
“It’s just hard to get very far when every guy you try to hang out with gets threatened and scared off by half the men in your life.”
That gets his full attention.
I laugh again, short and sharp and still not remotely amused. “Seriously, Jimmy. Do you know how hard it is to have a normal dating life when your brother is Landon Mitchell and the rest of you walk around looking like you bury people for fun?”
His mouth opens. Closes. No response.
Also good. Because I’m right.
I think about sophomore year, when some sweet, nervous football player asked me to a school dance and then mysteriously decided he “wasn’t really looking for anything serious” after Landon and Jimmy “just happened” to pick me up from school the same week.
I think about the college boy from a town over who stopped texting after he came by Ambrosia once and got one look at who was sitting in the back office with me.
I think about every half-started thing that died before it could become anything because some man somewhere realized I came with too much risk and not enough reward.
And maybe that’s not entirely on Jimmy. But he was never exactly helping.
“So forgive me,” I say, “if I didn’t think I needed to hand you a warning label before tonight.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Jimmy drags both hands over his face, then drops them to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “That’s not—” He stops, swallows hard, tries again. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
There it is again.
The question he keeps refusing to answer. The one I keep asking in different forms because I’m apparently committed to making us both miserable.
He looks at me. Really looks.
And for one dangerous second, I think maybe this is it. Maybe this is where the truth finally breaks loose. Maybe this is where he says something real enough to make the whole mess worth it.
Instead, he says, “You should’ve had more than this.”
I just stare at him. Then I let out a breath that feels like it tears something on the way out. Because there it is.
That’s the thing. That’s the line that takes all the fragile, bruised, finally feeling in my chest and crushes it flat under one boot.
You should’ve had more than this.
Not: I wanted it to be me.Not: I’m glad it was me.Not: I’ve wanted you too long to pretend this doesn’t matter.
No.
Just regret wrapped in concern and handed back to me like some noble little apology.