Page 89 of Checking It Twice
The words hit too close to home, and I have to look away. Because she’s right. This isn’t casual disappointment. This feels like losing something I didn’t know I could want this much.
“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” I say finally. “He’s moved on. We’re back to being coworkers.”
“Are you?”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes against the table. My heart does this stupid leap before I see it’s just a work email, and the disappointment that follows makes me want to throw the damn thing in the trash.
“See?” Bryn says, catching my reaction. “You’re not fine.”
I’m definitely not fine. I’m a mess. A mess who’s slowly dying inside because a hockey player made me believe in fairy tales for four days.
“What am I supposed to do?” The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest. “Text him? Show up at his apartment? Pretend the whole thing never happened?”
“You could try being honest.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that you’re in love with him.”
The words hit like a slap, and I nearly drop my martini. “I’m not—”
“You are. And it’s terrifying because you’ve never felt anything like this before.” Bryn’s voice is gentle but relentless. “Erik wassafe, predictable. A mistake you could learn from and move on. This is different.”
She’s right, and I hate that she’s right. What I felt for Erik was comfortable attraction, a breakup you can recover from with some ice cream and wounded pride. This feels like something essential got carved out of me and I can’t figure out how to function without it.
“Even if I was,” I say carefully, “it doesn’t matter. He had his chance to—”
My phone buzzes again, and this time when I glance at the screen, my heart stops entirely.
Mitchell: How are you settling back in?
I stare at the message like it might disappear, pulse hammering against my ribs. Three days of nothing, and now this. Casual, friendly, like we’re old acquaintances catching up.
I frown.
“Who is it?” Bryn asks, but she already knows from the look on my face.
“Him.”
“What does it say?”
I slide the phone across the table, and Bryn reads it with growing interest. “He’s checking in. That’s good.”
“That’s polite.”
“He’s testing the waters.” She slides the phone back to me. “What are you going to say?”
My fingers hover over the keyboard, paralyzed by possibilities. I could ignore it, maintain this professional distance we’ve already established. I could be equally casual, pretend my heart isn’t racing. I could be honest about how much I’ve missed him, how empty everything feels without his laugh filling up the spaces.
Instead, I type:Fine. Back to the grind. How’s the family recovery from Christmas chaos?
Safe. Professional. Giving him an easy out if this is just courtesy.
His response comes back almost immediately:Mom’s already planning Easter. Fair warning.
The casual mention of future holidays makes something flutter dangerously in my chest. Like maybe I’m not just a closed chapter after all.
Should I be worried?I type back, then immediately regret it. Too flirty. Too much like the banter we shared when things felt real.
