Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
But he’s already here.
He sits in a booth near the back, exactly where he should be: in shadow, with the river of traffic behind him and the empty chair across the table glowing like an altar. Thomas’s posture is what I remember—broad shoulders squared, dark hair brushed back, jawline so square it should have a warning label. He doesn’t look at his phone, doesn’t scan the room. He looks straight ahead, hands folded in front of him, like a man waiting for a verdict.
He’s never not been handsome. But tonight, in the underworld light, he looks like a ghost of himself—a little more tired, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper, his hair a little less controlled, the stubble shading his mouth like he can’t be bothered to care. He sees me, of course, the second I walk in. His head snaps up, and for half a heartbeat his eyes widen, just enough to crack something in me. Then it’s gone. All business.
The hostess tries to intercept me, but I walk right past, pulse drumming in my ears. My coat is too thin for the weather, and as I cross the room, I feel every goosebump on my arms. The smell of the place is tomato and oil and scorched black pepper, and it sticks to my hair before I’ve even sat down.
When I reach the table, Thomas stands. Just a fraction, just enough to show that old-fashioned thing he does, like he’s making sure I know I’m seen, I’m wanted. It’s such a tiny gesture—he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—but it makes my throat go tight. I sink into the bench across from him, folding my hands in my lap so that I appear peaceful, even if I’m not.
We just sit, looking at one another.
A waiter comes by with water, pours for each of us. Thomas’s hands are steady, fingers laced together on the table, the pinkie of his left hand just barely tapping the wood every few seconds. I watch it. I want to reach across and hold that hand, but I don’t. I sit back, as far as the booth will let me, and stare at the candle between us without seeing a word.
Finally, he speaks. “You’re early.”
His voice is lower than I remember, rough at the edges.
I make myself meet his gaze. “You’re earlier.”
A smile ghosts over his mouth, not quite making it to the surface.
He says, “Thank you for meeting me.”
I try for a smile. “Sure.” My tongue feels three sizes too big for my mouth. I should say something—anything—but the words have gone somewhere else, and I can’t fetch them back.
He senses it, of course. Thomas always senses everything. He leans forward, hands still folded, and says, “I can tell this is awkward for both of us, so I’ll get right to it.” No small talk. No preamble. “I’ve missed you, Andie, and I’d like to try again. If you’re willing.”
My heart stutters. I stare at the water glass, watching the bubbles climb to the top.
He waits, silent, and then adds: “I’ve had some time to think. I won’t say I’ve come to a perfect conclusion, but…” He pauses, grimaces. “I can’t do this life without you. It doesn’t work.”
I look up, and the force of his gaze nearly pins me. For a second, all the hurt and the humiliation and the weird, awful longing of the last month comes rushing up—how nothing’s tasted right since I last saw him, how every writing prompt at the workshop turned into a slow bleed, how I’ve stopped even pretending to be present when people talk to me. I want to say yes to his request, right now, and throw myself into his arms, but I don’t because I need to hear more.
“Okay,” I say in a slow tone. “But what caused this about-face? I mean, one moment, I was being asked to leave your apartment for the second time, and now, you’re saying that you can’t live without me?”
Thomas clears his throat. “It’s a series of realizations, and a series of fractional changes. I know I’m older. And I know I’m behind on the times—by a lot. The world moves faster than I do, Andie.” He sits back, letting the words settle between us. “But I don’t want to make you miserable. I don’t want to be that guy who tries to control you, or judge you, or turn you into something you’re not.”
I find my voice. “You’re not that guy.”
His lips twitch, like he almost wants to believe it. “You say that, but it’s obvious I’m not as adaptable as I’d hoped.” He gestures around, at the dimness, at the world.
I pause.
“Okay, but explain it to me. What about you isn’t adaptable?”
Thomas pauses and clears his throat, blue eyes dark.
“Apparently, people record themselves now, all the time. While having sex. I was honestly shocked by how many sex tapes are just floating out there—sometimes even on purpose.” He looks at me, eyes softening. “Did you know there’s an entire TikTok about ‘accidentally’ filming your boyfriend, just to see how he looks in bed? And then there’s the Mormon MomTok drama, and—” He shakes his head, exasperated. “Never mind. I’m making it worse.”