Chapter 46 Unforgettable Memories #2
He kisses my forehead like it’s instinct, like he doesn’t have a plane to catch in just a few hours. Like showing up at my place across town in the middle of the night to bring me snacks and company is completely normal.
The quiet between us isn’t hollow like the apartment’s been lately. It’s weighty, warm. A place to rest.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says eventually, voice low like it’s meant just for me.
I let my head drop to his shoulder. “I know. Doesn’t make right now any easier.”
“I know,” he repeats, pressing another kiss to my forehead, softer this time.
No grand gestures. No trying to fix it. Just showing up. And in this moment, that’s everything.
The little ramen bar hums with low chatter and the clink of chopsticks against ceramic. Steam curls up from the open kitchen, carrying the smell of broth so rich it makes my stomach growl before I’ve even sat down a few days later.
Lori eyes me as I slide into the booth. “You look tired.”
“I am tired,” I admit, unwrapping my chopsticks. “But I’m here.”
“Mm-hmm.” She studies me for a second longer than feels casual. “Not just tired. Different.”
I laugh under my breath. “Different how?”
She tilts her head. “Like you’ve been keeping something… good. And it’s making you all mysterious.”
Before I can answer, the waiter arrives with our bowls—her tonkotsu, my miso with extra scallions, plus a rainbow roll between us.
We fall into that easy rhythm of slurping noodles and catching up—her latest Rebecca encounter, my ongoing war with my apartment heat—until she reaches to slide my water closer.
And in the same motion, she flips both our phones over so they’re face-up.
Her gaze lands on my lock screen before I can snatch it, that candid rooftop shot of August behind me, arm draped low across my waist, my head tipped back mid-laugh.
Her eyes go wide, and then that slow grin spreads across her face. “Harlee. Is that August James?”
I lean back, feigning confusion. “Could be anyone. Tall, brown, handsome—lots of those around.”
She gives me a look. “Uh-huh. And lots of those happen to hold you like that?”
I try to focus on my noodles, but she’s not letting it go. “Lori—”
“Oh my God, it is him.” She points her chopsticks at me, victorious. “And you didn’t tell me?!”
I drop my gaze to the table, suddenly aware of how long I’ve been holding this in. “After Wynter left, everything felt different. He was my peace in the middle of all that, and I didn’t want to risk… I don’t know. Explaining it before I was ready.”
Lori’s expression softens, all that teasing folding into warmth. “So you were protecting it.”
I nod, exhaling like the confession’s been lodged in my chest for weeks. “Yeah. But I’m done keeping it secret.”
Lori smiles, slow and certain. “This is amazing news! I mean, not the keeping-secrets part, but you and August? That explains so much!”
I blinked, taken aback by her enthusiasm. “It does?”
“Absolutely!” she exclaimed, practically bouncing in her seat. “The glow, the new wardrobe, that dreamy look you get sometimes... it all makes sense now. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before! I am usually so good at these things.”
I laugh, tension breaking. For the first time since Wynter’s departure, letting someone else in doesn’t feel like a risk. It feels like a relief.
That feeling follows me the next week as I walk into James Wilde Media for what I know will be one of the last times.
I’ve got my ID badge in my coat pocket, my resignation already accepted, and my start date at the accounting firm circled in red on my calendar. The decision still doesn’t feel glamorous, but it feels… right. A choice I made, not one I fell into.
The bullpen hums with the usual midweek rhythm—phones ringing, printers spitting out contracts, someone laughing way too loud by the coffee machine. It’s comforting, and I let myself linger in the doorway for a second, memorizing it.
I think about the first day I walked in here, so determined to prove myself. About the months I spent pretending I was only here for the fellowship. About all the times I used “dropping off reports” as an excuse just to pass August’s office.
That’s over now. We don’t need excuses.
I slide my badge across the desk to the receptionist, who grins at me like she knows.
“Last day?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Congrats.”
I smile, but there’s a little tug in my chest. It’s the same feeling I had telling Lori. Things are changing. The same mix of pride and ache I felt when Wynter left. Ending something doesn’t erase what it gave you.
By the time I step back out into the cold, I’ve decided: I’m not walking away from an era. I’m walking toward the next one.
I take the long way back toward campus.
No fellowship shift to clock into. No August waiting upstairs. Just me and a free afternoon, which feels stranger than it should.
The advisement office hasn’t changed—same double doors, same faint smell of burnt coffee from the student lounge next door.
I check in at the kiosk, praying my ancient student ID photo doesn’t pop up on the screen.
It does. Twenty-two-year-old me grins back, overalls and all, like she’s about to sell friendship bracelets on the quad.
The waiting room is packed. I spot a seat next to a guy in a black pullover, head down over his phone.
“Mind if I sit?”
He glances up briefly. “Yeah, go ahead.”
I slide into the chair, pull out my phone, and thumb through Instagram. The last post is a graduation photo—me and Wynter, caps and gowns, cheeks pressed together like we owned the world.
The guy leans just far enough to see. “I know her.”
I angle my phone away, caught between irritation and curiosity. “Yeah?”
“Saw her open for Noah at The Riviera last month. She’s insane—voice, stage presence, everything. I’ve been following her since.”
Pride swells in my chest. “She’s good,” I say, keeping it light.
He grins. “Name’s Dante.” He offers a hand, and I shake it.
His eyes narrow slightly, like a memory just surfaced. “Wait… you’re Harlee, right? Double e’s?”
I nod cautiously.
He tilts his head. “You used to date Spencer Buchanan.”
The air shifts. “We were friends,” I say, the line I’ve repeated for three years.
Dante shrugs, still smiling. “That’s not what he told the house. We were roommates junior year. Spence told everybody you were off-limits.”
I blink, sure I’ve misheard. “Come again?”
“Off-limits,” he repeats. “Couple guys wanted to ask you out—one even had stats with you—but Spence shut it down. Got real heated about it too.”
The words hit harder than I expect. He’d hidden me in plain sight, made me invisible when it counted—yet apparently still kept me on a leash.
I manage a neutral, “Huh,” and reach for my headphones, signaling the conversation’s over.
Before Dante can add more, Dr. Healy’s door opens. “Harlee Prince?”
I stand, smoothing my sweater, and step inside—head a little higher than before.
Of course I was off-limits.
Spencer knew then what I’ve always known: I’m unforgettable.