Chapter Thirty-Five
Pizza, Apologies, and Other Unexpected Things
Scarlett
He said to meet him on the rooftop.
Of course he did. He probably thought it sounded romantic. Poetic. Like something out of a slow-burn Netflix drama where the girl forgives the guy with a dramatic kiss and a fade to black.
Joke’s on him—I’m wearing sneakers and anxiety.
The rooftop is quiet when I push the door open. Windy. A little too cinematic, if I’m honest. String lights zigzag above a few lounge chairs, and the skyline stretches out in front of us like it knows we’re about to have a moment.
Chase is standing near the edge, hands in his pockets, staring out at the city like he’s been up here practicing what to say.
He turns when he hears me. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me walk toward him, as if he’s not sure I won’t decide to run.
Truthfully, I’m not either.
“Hey,” I say, because I’m great at grand entrances.
“Hey.”
We stand there for a beat. Two. I fold my arms to keep from fidgeting.
“Kind of dramatic, don’t you think?” I nod at the skyline. “What, no rooftop string quartet?”
He huffs out a laugh. It sounds like it hurts.
“Thought I’d keep it low-key.”
“Well, nothing says casual like emotional trauma and mood lighting.”
He nods, lips pressed together, eyes scanning mine as if he’s trying to read what I’m thinking.
“I didn’t know if I was going to come,” I say.
“I didn’t know if you would either.”
I blink. “Wow. Off to a strong start.”
He winces. “That’s not what I—look, I meant… I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. But I’m glad you did.”
Silence stretches between us again. The wind tugs at my hair. It smells like the city up here, and maybe rain and something else I can’t name.
“I was humiliated,” I say finally. “Standing there, hearing them talk about me like I was some… experiment. A bet with a deadline.”
His face twists like the words physically hurt him.
“I know,” he says quietly. “You have every right to feel that way.”
“I wasn’t just mad,” I add, staring past him at the skyline. “I was embarrassed. I finally let my guard down and let someone in, and it turns out the universe was laughing at me.”
“Scarlett—”
“I know you didn’t plan it. But you knew. And you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to ruin what we were building; it felt so fragile...”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug.
That hangs there like smoke.
He nods once, eyes locked on mine. “I should’ve told you. No excuse. But it was never a joke to me. You weren’t a stunt, or a bet, or part of the PR campaign. You were you. And I was already gone.”
I exhale slowly. Might as well rip the band-aid off. “That would be more touching if I didn’t feel like a moron for making a bet of my own.”
He blinks. “Wait… what?”
“Yeah.” I rub my eyes. “Harper and I—she bet me I’d fall for you.”
His eyebrows lift, a small flicker of surprise on his face. “Details, please.”
“Not to quote Shakespeare, but it was one of those ‘the lady doth protest too much’ situations. She thought all my venom toward you meant the opposite. Of course, at the time, I brushed her off, told her no way. But yeah, there was still a bet—at least on her end.”
Chase looks surprised but doesn’t say anything more.
“So I guess I’m a walking hypocrite,” I add.
He takes a tentative step closer. “Maybe we’re just two idiots who didn’t see this coming.”
I look up at him. He’s beautiful. Calm, and rational. And that’s so annoying.
He’s literally the perfect male specimen—tall, roguishly handsome with scruff on his jaw and kind eyes…
“I’m still mad,” I admit.
“Okay.”
“I’m not ready to forgive you.”
“Okay.”
“But I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.”
Something shifts in his expression. It’s soft and vulnerable and stupidly earnest.
“You don’t have to fall,” he says. “Just lean. I’ll catch you.”
My heart stumbles. I don’t move for a second. Just stare at him like he might evaporate if I blink too hard.
Then, slowly, I step forward.
I press my forehead against his chest.
He doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his arms around me and lets me just be, lets me breathe him in. And it feels… safe. For the first time in a while.
It’s not fixed.
It’s not perfect.
But it’s real.
“I know you’re scared, Scar. I get it. But believe me, I’m not going anywhere.”
His words are a sweet balm to my tattered heart. And they do help—just the tiniest bit.
Eventually, I pull back just enough to breathe, and Chase looks at me like I just handed him his heart back, his gaze full of admiration and something warm.
He touches my cheek with his thumb.
I lean into his touch, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t need you.”
His face changes, something flickering in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or disappointment.
“But I want you,” I continue, meeting his gaze. “And that’s so much scarier.”
His breath catches. “Scarlett...”
“Needing someone means you’re incomplete without them. But wanting someone when you’re already whole? When you’ve already proven you can do it alone?” I swallow hard. “That’s choosing to hand them the power to wreck you, even when you don’t have to.”
“Never gonna wreck you, baby.” He gazes at me with those eyes that see way too much, and I’m lost.
Then he clears his throat. “So, uh… I was gonna ask if you were hungry.”
“I could eat. What did you have in mind?”
He grins. “Pizza?”
I smile. “Only if I get full veto power on toppings.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” he says as we start toward the stairs. “This is a democracy.”
“It is not a democracy. You eat pineapple on pizza.”
“Because I’m a man of culture.”
“You’re what’s wrong with America.”
He laughs, and it’s this warm, surprised thing that makes my chest do something deeply inconvenient.
We walk a few blocks until we find a tiny hole-in-the-wall pizzeria with paper plates, checkered tables, and a neon sign that probably hasn’t worked properly since 2003. In other words—perfect.
We order a pie half his way, half mine, because apparently we’ve reached that level of maturity, and slide into a corner booth like this is just… normal.
And honestly? It kind of is.
I sip my Pepsi and gaze over at him.
He leans back like he owns the place. And I can’t help but notice how cute he looks. Dark jeans. Black hoodie. Black hat turned backwards. “You know, if this were a date, I’d be crushing it right now.”
I raise a brow. “Bringing a woman to a pizza place with questionable health grades and fluorescent lighting?”
He shrugs. “It’s bold. Unexpected. Sexy in a working-class hero kind of way.”
I smirk. “You really are unwell.”
He grins at me, and for a second, I forget about everything else, because he really is that pretty.
And this feels good.
Normal. Us.
Our pizza is delivered to the table shockingly fast—my half is mushrooms, olives, and extra cheese—enough to kill a lactose-intolerant person. His is pineapple, pepperoni, and jalapenos. Sweet and spicy—a lot like him.
“Feel free to have a slice of mine,” he says, sliding a piece of pie onto his paper plate. “I might just expand your palate.”
“You’ll expand my rage.” I grin sweetly.
“How was Chicago?” he asks.
“Good,” I say quickly. “I had a sit-down chat with both of my parents in the same room for the first time in decades.”
His eyebrows lift. “And?”
I swallow. “And it was good, healing in a way. Probably sounds stupid how much I let them affect me for so long.”
He touches my hand. “Just because someone carries it well doesn’t mean the weight isn’t heavy.”
I release a slow breath and realize he’s right. I don’t have to carry the weight of my parents’ failures anymore. It’s time to choose me—my life.
“So,” he says between bites, “most embarrassing moment. Go.”
I blink at him. “That’s a very personal first-date question.”
“This is technically our eighth public outing.”
I fake-count on my fingers. “Does that include the time I heckled you in front of thousands of fans?”
“Especially that one.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. But if you ever tell anyone, I will burn your house down.”
“I can accept those terms.”
I lean back, arms crossed. “Senior year, I tripped during a pep rally in front of the entire school. And fell face-first into the tuba section. My skirt went up. It was… not a good day.”
He chokes on his soda. “Into the tuba section?”
“I was airborne. There was altitude.”
He’s doubled over now, laughing so hard he’s turning red.
I throw a balled-up napkin at his head. “Your turn, jackass.”
He wipes his eyes. “Okay, okay. Mine’s bad.”
“Worse than flying into brass instruments while showing your underwear?”
“Debatable. Rookie year, locker room prank war got out of hand. Someone swapped my shampoo for Nair.”
My jaw drops. “No.”
“Oh yeah. I lost half an eyebrow and a decent chunk of my pride.”
I’m wheezing now. “Did you play like that?”
“Yup. There’s footage. The internet is forever.”
I’m laughing so hard I nearly drop my slice. He’s grinning at me like he can’t believe this is real, and maybe I can’t either.
Because somehow, even after everything, it’s easy again. The kind of easy you don’t fake. The kind you fall into without meaning to. Like we’ve been doing this for years.
I look at him—really look at him—and the warmth in my chest isn’t just about pizza or banter or tuba-based trauma.
It’s him.
Still him.
Maybe always him.