Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The deli smells like fresh bread and roasted coffee. Sunlight pours through the windows, making everything warm and golden. We slide into a booth near the back, the orange club chairs swallowing us up.
Julian wraps his hands around his coffee mug. Those long fingers, those silver rings catching the light.
"So…” He meets my eyes.
God, those eyes. Dark and deep, framed by lashes that go on forever. Soulful doesn't even cover it—like he's lived a hundred lives and remembers every one. I could drown in them.
Stop it, Liza.
"So…” I echo, gripping my own mug.
He's studying me too, gaze tracing my face, and I wonder what he sees. My too-big eyes, my pin-straight black hair, my caramel skin. Is he disappointed? Am I his type? Does he even have a type?
He's definitely mine.
"That night—" His voice drops lower. "I keep replaying it. How terrified I was."
"You seemed so calm."
"Had to be. For Emmy. For you." He shakes his head. "But inside? I was freaking out."
"Me too." I lean forward. "I'm really glad you were there."
"Same. I mean—" He pauses, something shifting in his expression. "Despite how horrible it was, I'm glad it let me meet you."
The air changes. Charged.
Dangerous.
My stomach flips, and I force myself to breathe.
"You look different today." He tilts his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "More… buttoned up."
"Yeah?" I glance down at Daniel's choice—the boring beige slacks, the plain dark blouse. "Police station appropriate, I guess."
"Last time I saw you, you were wearing—" He stops, like he's embarrassed he remembers. "A frayed denim skirt. Rainbow-striped top. Those flower earrings."
My jaw drops. "You remember that?"
"Hard to forget."
I remember his black t-shirt, the way it stretched across his chest, the tattoo peeking out from his sleeve. His dark jeans. The Pepsi.
"Which version do you like better?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His smile widens. "Both. But maybe the colorful one a little more."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Good. Because this—" I gesture at myself. "This isn't me. Just chosen for the occasion."
"Why?"
I could answer that honestly, but that would be falling into a rabbit hole. No good can come of it. "Just trying to appear credible, I guess."
"Liza." He clears his throat, fingers drumming against the ceramic mug. "I know this is forward, but—would you want to grab dinner sometime?"
My heart drops straight through the floor.
"Like a date?" The words come out breathless.
"Yeah. A date." He holds my gaze, steady but vulnerable. "I'd really like to get to know you better."
The space shrinks around us. Everything in me screams yes—every cell, every nerve ending.
"I… I have a boyfriend."
His face falls. Just for a second, but I catch it. The disappointment flickering across those beautiful features.
"Right. Of course." He leans back, creating distance. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"No, don't apologize." I reach across the table, almost touching his hand before pulling back. "I'm flattered. Really."
Understatement of the century.
We sit in awkward silence. I want to cry or scream or throw something. Instead, I grab the pamphlet from my purse, unfolding it on the table.
"Are you considering this support group thing?"
He latches onto the subject change. "Yeah, actually. It's in Portland, near my sister's place. I’d get to see my nephew, maybe work through some stuff."
"Work through stuff?"
"I'm writing a book," he explains. He rubs the back of his neck. "Well, attempting to. It's inspired by… darker experiences. My past. Figured the group might help with authenticity."
"You're a writer?"
"Hobby. Piano pays the bills." His smile returns, softer now. "But this one's different. More personal. A memoir disguised as fiction, I guess."
I lean forward, fascinated. "What kind of past?"
"The rough kind." He doesn't elaborate, but shadows cross his face. "I didn't exactly have a Sunday mass and family dinners childhood."
I smile. "Same."
A long beat of silence stretches between us. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "I want to go too."
What the hell am I doing?
"To the support group?"
"Uh… Yeah. Maybe it would help. With the nightmares." True enough, even if it's not the whole truth.
Daniel would lose his mind.
But Daniel doesn't need to know.
"That's great." Julian's whole face lights up. "We could drive together if you'd like."
"That sounds good."
The trace of a wince stretches across his lips. "You'd have to drop by my sister's with me for a bit though, if that's okay."
"Uh… that's cool. I love meeting new people, and I love kids. How old is your nephew?"
"He's six. His name is Cooper.”
"Adorable, I'm sure."
"Oh yeah."
I'm making a terrible decision. I know it in my bones.
But I can't imagine never seeing Julian again.
The two of us met completely by chance, just a completely random encounter in an average convenience store, and we've formed this unexpected connection. We've bonded over our shared terror, the weight we both carry as a result.
Trauma-bonded, I guess that's what they'd call it.
Whatever label you want to put on it, the feeling is real and undeniable.
And despite every logical voice in my head screaming that this is dangerous territory, that I'm playing with fire, that Daniel will absolutely lose his mind if he finds out—I'm not ready to let Julian go.
I'm just not.
I sink into the pillows on my bed, propping my phone against a stack of books. Jenna's face fills the screen, her red hair swept up in that messy bun she favors.
"Thanks again for dinner last week," she gushes. "Daniel really outdid himself with that salmon. You're so lucky he can cook like that."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "Yeah. He's great in the kitchen."
If only that were the whole story.
I bite my lip, knowing I shouldn't say anything. But the secret burns inside me, demanding release. "So, I saw Julian again."
Jenna's smile vanishes. "What? When?"
"At the police station. They called us both in for follow-up questions." The words tumble out faster now. "We got coffee after."
"And how did that go?"
"It was nice… to talk about it. But then it got kind of weird…"
"How so?" Jenna asks, clearly curious.
"He asked me out," I explain. "It was a bit awkward. I felt bad for rejecting him."
"Well, you do have a serious boyfriend," Jenna points out.
"I know…"
"Apparently, all the boys want a little taste of Liza," she teases.
I smile. "Anyway, we're going to a support group together—for violent crime victims."
"Liza." Her tone shifts, sharp with concern. "That's a terrible idea."
"It's just a support group—"
"With a guy you're clearly into. A guy who asked you out." She leans closer to her camera. "You have a boyfriend. This is dangerous."
Heat flares in my chest. "I can have friends, Jenna."
"Friends don't make you feel the way he does. Trust me, I've heard you talk about him, and I know you have feelings for him."
Well, there's no denying that. As much as I hate to admit it, she's spot on.
She sighs. "I'm just worried about you. Daniel's already so intense, and if he finds out—"
"He won't." I force brightness into my voice, desperate to change the subject. "Besides, the group's in Portland. Maybe I can visit you guys after."
She studies me through the screen, unconvinced.
"Actually, that's why I wanted to talk." Her expression softens, a smile creeping back. "I have news."
My curiosity sparks. "What kind of news?"
A “slow smile stretches across her lips. “I’m… pregnant. Four months now.”
"Jenna!" I bolt upright, nearly knocking my phone over. "That's amazing! Liam's going to be such a good big brother."
"He's excited. Well, as excited as a five-year-old can be."
"Five already? God, time flies." I grin at her through the screen. "Do you know what you're having?"
“Not yet.”
"Caine must be over the moon."
She laughs, the sound warm and familiar. "He's probably already planning to teach the kid 8-ball before he or she can even walk properly."
We both laugh at that, the tension easing momentarily.
But when the call ends, I stare at my ceiling, emotions tangled. I'm thrilled for Jenna—truly. She deserves all the happiness in the world.
But I'm also annoyed. Frustrated that she doesn't trust me to handle my own life, that she thinks I'm making a mistake.
Maybe I am.
But it's my mistake to make.