6. Chapter 6
Cate
Present
Amy didn’t let go of my hand right away.
We were still in the same corner booth at Moe’s - the same cracked vinyl seat, the same Formica table, the same faint smell of coffee that had been sitting too long - but the air between us felt heavier now. Like saying John’s name had changed the oxygen levels.
“It’s been years, Cate,” she said softly.
“I know.” I picked at the peeling edge of my napkin. “I shouldn’t even be talking about him.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Amy exhaled. “No. What I meant was… you’re getting married tomorrow. And the first name out of your mouth when I ask what’s wrong is his.”
My throat tightened. She wasn’t wrong, and that made everything worse.
I took a long sip of my milkshake, mostly melted now, and let the cold numb my tongue. “I didn’t plan to think about him today. Or yesterday. Or ever again, honestly.” I swallowed. “But now that he’s in my head…”
I shook my head. “It’s like no time has passed at all.”
Amy’s expression gentled into something painfully familiar. She’d known me long enough to recognize the look on my face, the one that meant I was standing at the edge of something I didn’t want to name.
“What brought it up?” she asked. “Really.”
I stared down at our joined hands.
“It wasn’t just the haunted house,” I admitted. “Or the dresser. Or all the stupid little things he did that I shouldn’t remember.” My voice dropped. “It’s how safe I felt. How easy it was to be myself.”
Saying it out loud made my chest ache.
“I love Trevor,” I said quickly, like I needed to say it before she could doubt me. “He’s good. He’s stable. He chose me.”
Amy didn’t interrupt.
“And that should be enough,” I whispered. “It is enough.”
But even as I said it, something inside me resisted.
Amy squeezed my hand. “Cate… does Trevor make you feel the way John did?”
The question landed soft, but it hit hard.
I closed my eyes. “I don’t think that’s fair,” I said, though my voice wobbled. “To compare them.”
“Maybe not,” she said gently. “But you are.”
My gaze drifted to the window, to the street outside, to people walking by with nowhere urgent to be. My dress was being altered. My ring was sitting in its box. Tomorrow was already hurtling toward me whether I was ready or not.
“I’m not trying to leave,” I said. “I’m just… remembering.”
Amy studied me. “Sometimes remembering is the first step toward realizing something hasn’t let go of you.”
I swallowed hard.
“It wasn’t even supposed to be a date,” I said after a moment. “That night at The Scot & Barrel. I told myself I wasn’t going. I told myself it didn’t matter.”
“And yet you went.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I did.”
Because some part of me already knew.
I let go of Amy’s hand and leaned back against the booth, my heart heavy and unsettled.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” I admitted.
Amy reached for me again. “You don’t have to do anything today. Just… be honest with yourself.”
I nodded, though honesty suddenly felt like the most dangerous thing in the world.
Because I knew exactly which night had started all of this.
The Scot & Barrel.