Chapter 28 #2
“Not a joke,” I say. “I’ve written about you in every book since. You were always the woman in my stories—sometimes with other people’s hair or marching under a new name—but always you. Even when I tried to write you out, you just came back different. You ever notice that?”
“I take that as an insult because your character, Janessa, was an airhead. A sex deprived airhead.”
I laugh. “If you ever read my early works—”
“What about your ex-fiancé? I’m sure she was the leading lady in your novels. You don’t have to lie to me. We’ve already had sex, and I told you I’m not going to ghost you this time around.” She looks down at her food.
“I’m not lying. I mean it, and maybe that’s why I didn’t fight harder to win Vanessa back.”
“She cheated on you. I don’t know why you would want someone back who cheated.” She looks up at me.
“Honeybee, I don’t want to talk about my exes with you, nor do I want you to talk about your exes with me.”
Minji’s quiet for a long moment—a rare thing, and I can tell she’s not sure what to do with the information. Her gaze flicks out to the restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling windows, where reflections of city lights blur into copper and navy.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I just don’t want either of us stuck in the past.”
Minji takes a sip of her martini, studying me over the rim. “So, you wrote me into all your books?”
“Not intentionally at first,” I admit. “I’d create these headstrong women who wouldn’t take any shit, and my editor would point out they all had the same mannerisms. Eventually, I just leaned into it.”
“I’m flattered. I think.” She sets down her glass, her fingers lingering on the stem. “Though it’s a little unsettling to know I’ve been living rent-free in your head all these years.”
“Not exactly rent-free. You’ve earned me quite a few royalty checks.”
She laughs, the sound warming me from the inside. “I should invoice you.”
We fall into rhythm, forks scraping plates, silence comfortable now. But there’s electricity when our eyes meet—hers darting away just when the current gets too strong. It’s a dance of glances, both of us knowing we’re circling something inevitable.
When the waiter clears our plates, she dips her spoon into the tiramisu we’re sharing, carving little valleys in the mascarpone. “You know what? You’re still you,” she says, not looking up. “Just… more so.”
“Twelve years will do that. I cook now and actually wake up at a decent hour.” I ramble.
“That’s surface stuff.” Her eyes finally find mine. “I mean, how you lock onto what you want with this… intensity. You used to at least pretend to be casual about things.”
“And that’s bad?”
Her mouth quirks to one side, caught between a smile and something more cautious. “The jury’s still deliberating.”
Outside the restaurant, we walk along the Embarcadero, the bay wind cold on our faces.
She slips her fingers through mine, fitting together easily.
Neon lights reflect on the water, and we hear bits of other people’s conversations, but they don’t touch us.
We pass a couple hugging under a bus shelter with an oat milk ad, and Minji lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-scoff.
“San Francisco romances are so on-brand.”
“You want to join them?”
“I’d rather not be arrested for public indecency in a city this expensive.”
I lead her toward the pier, holding back the urge to say something overly romantic.
I’ve learned that when I get too sentimental, she shuts it down fast. Instead, I put my arm around her waist as we reach the railing, her back against my chest, and we just stand there together.
The way she leans into me feels natural, like we’re finally where we’re supposed to be.
“Don’t expect me to cry and call this destiny,” she states.
“I’ll take a decent embrace and your word you won’t disappear this time.”
“Statute of limitations on boredom is three months,” she says. “After that, you are allowed to drunk-dial and berate me for my emotional cowardice.”
My arms tighten a fraction despite myself. “You already set a countdown? Damn, Minji.”
She elbows me in the ribs, but she’s grinning this time. “Relax. Maybe it’ll stick for once.”
Lights dance across the bay, and I make a silent vow—I won’t ruin this by demanding more than she can offer.
I can handle her terms. Something in my posture must change, because she turns in my arms, her gaze piercing and alive, reminiscent of those nights we’d debate existentialism as a form of foreplay.
“Don’t laugh,” she murmurs, barely audible above the harbor sounds. “But ninety days is practically a commitment ceremony for me.”
“Honeybee, coming from you, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”
She laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest. I want to bottle that laugh, keep it close for the lonely nights on tour when hotel rooms blur together and the only constant is her absence.
“Marriage? You’re getting ahead of yourself, Singleton.
” Her eyes catch the moonlight reflecting off the bay.
I press my lips to her temple, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mingled with the salt air. “Maybe a proposal will be in our future.”
The walk back to the hotel crackles with anticipation. We move at an easy pace, but there’s a quiet urgency in every step. Her hand in mine is at once comfortingly familiar and thrillingly new, like picking up a beloved novel and discovering hidden pages you never knew existed.
In the elevator, she leans against the wall, studying me with that lawyer’s gaze that sees through bullshit. “You’re plotting something.”
“You will see once we get inside our room.”