Page 11

Kairi

“Extra pickles, please,” I said, handing my menu back to the waiter with a smile. He nodded, scribbling on his notepad, and I turned my attention back to my phone, my fingers already tapping out the opening lines of my new romance novel.

“Love isn’t always a choice. Sometimes, it’s a collision—two souls crashing into each other, leaving behind a mess neither of them knows how to clean up.”

I paused, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was a strong start, but something about it felt too raw, too close to the truth. I shook my head, trying to push the thought away. This was fiction, after all. Just a story.

And then, the air shifted.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I felt it—a prickle at the back of my neck, a sudden awareness that made my skin hum. I glanced up, my eyes scanning the room as I searched for the cause.

My eyes landed on Atlas. Just outside.

My heart began thumping in my chest.

I blinked, half-expecting him to disappear, a figment of my imagination conjured by the subject of my new book.

But he didn’t.

He was real, in the flesh, older now, his green eyes scanning the room like he was looking for something—or someone. My heart pounded in my chest, and I quickly looked down, pretending to be engrossed in my phone.

This isn’t happening, I told myself. This can’t be happening.

But it was.

He stepped through the door like he owned the place, flanked by three men in suits who looked like they’d stepped out of a GQ spread. But Atlas—he was the one who commanded the room, his presence as magnetic as ever, even if the years had carved something harder, sharper, into his features. He looked older, tired, like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

Two years.

Two years since I’d last seen him. Two years since I’d traded the sticky, suffocating Florida heat for the electric pulse of New York City, which had its own equally suffocating heat. Two years of building a life that felt like mine. Freelance writing gigs that paid the bills (most of the time), an apartment in Harlem that smelled like sage and ambition, and a circle of friends who felt more like family. I was content.

But now, like a ghost from a life I’d tried to bury, one of the main sources of all the baggage in my life walked into my favorite sandwich shop.

For a moment, I forgot how to move. How to think. How to breathe.

Ashlen had mentioned him in one of our rare conversations, the kind we only had on birthdays or holidays now. She’d told me he’d taken over his father’s company, that they were living together in Florida, that they were planning a wedding. I’d nodded along, pretending it didn’t sting, pretending I didn’t care. I pretended Atlas had begged me to be with him.

I thought about saying hello, about walking over and pretending everything was fine, that we were just old friends catching up. But I couldn’t.

“Kairi?” The waitress’s voice cut through the haze, her tone impatient. “Order’s up!”

I blinked, snapping back to reality. My hands fumbled as I grabbed the paper bag she shoved across the counter. I muttered a quick “Thanks” and turned, my pulse racing as I slung my tote bag over my shoulder and made a beeline for the door.

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. The walk back to my apartment was a blur, my mind racing with memories I’d tried to lock away—his hands, his voice, the way he’d looked at me that night in the grass, like I was the only thing that mattered.

By the time I got home, I’d convinced myself it was nothing. I had work to do, a life to live.

But then, late that night, there was a knock at my door.

And just like that, everything I thought I’d left behind came crashing back.

Bang, bang, bang.

My heart jumped into my throat at the sudden loudness. I wondered who it could be at this hour. I hesitated for a moment, then pushed myself up from the couch, grabbing my metal bat from beside the coffee table as I crossed the room and opened the door.

Atlas leaned against the doorframe, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, looking effortlessly delicious. My mind scrambled to make sense of how he was standing in front of me.

“How do you know where I live?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I addressed the wedding invitations,” he said, referring to the invite that sat unopened on my desk. “I saw you today,” he said, his voice rough, as he gently pushed past me and walked into my apartment as if I had invited him in.

I stood frozen by the door after closing it, my back pressed against the wood, watching as he took a seat on my sofa. He spread his long legs wide, dominating the space like I remembered him doing so well. He picked up my glass of wine from the coffee table, drank from it, my lip gloss transferring to his lips.

“What are you doing here, Atlas?” I asked, my voice shaky, betraying the calm I was trying to project.

He didn’t answer right away, just turned his head and stared at me with those intense green eyes, the ones that always seemed to see right through me. Then, when he finally spoke, they were my words. "Just because you can't have someone doesn’t mean the wanting stops. But some cravings are best left unsatisfied, lingering in the shadowy corners of your heart where they won’t set you on fire." He quoted a line from an article I’d written about unrequited love.

I felt a shiver run down my spine, not from the cold, but from the way he brought my words to life, like he knew their meaning and who they were about. “Okay,” I said, trying to deflect, forcing a lightness into my tone. “You quote me instead of Octavia Butler now?”

He didn’t smile, didn’t play along. His eyes stayed locked on mine, his expression unreadable.

“Is that about me?” he asked.

I blew out a long breath, shaking my head as tension coiled in my belly. “Why would it be? We’re not like that, Atlas. We never were.”

He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving mine. “Why are you standing there like you’re scared of me, Kairi? You know me. We’re old friends,” he said instead of answering my old question.

I let out a laugh, but it sounded fake and hollow. “I know you, Atlas, but I wouldn’t call us friends.”

“What would you call us, then?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, more intense.

I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said, the word coming out sharper than I intended. We were nothing. What did he want from me?

“I wouldn’t call us nothing,” he rebutted.

“Okay. Then you’re an acquaintance, a friend’s fiancé.”

A shadow, something dark, crossed his face—hurt, maybe, or anger—but he masked it quickly. “An acquaintance,” he repeated, spitting it out like the word tasted bitter in his mouth. “A friend’s fiancé.”

I nodded, my hands trembling as I clenched them into fists at my sides, trying to keep myself from falling apart in front of him. “That’s all we ever were, Atlas. And that’s all we’ll ever be.”

“You sure?” he challenged.

“Positive,” I said, my voice wobbling and shaking.

He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, like he was looking for something he couldn’t find. Then, slowly, he stood up, placing my glass back on the table.

I stumbled away from the door as he walked toward it, putting ample space between us. Remember, his hands were fast.

“If that’s what you want to believe, Kairi,” he said quietly.

And just like that, he turned and walked out, leaving me standing there, my heart in pieces, feeling like I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.