Page 10 of Hale Yeah, It’s You

“You too,” I say softly, caught off guard by the sudden shyness crawling up my throat. I don’t want him to compliment me. I don’t like the way it stirs old hope inside me—hope I have no business entertaining. “Come in. We can sit in the break room.”

Roman nods, stepping past me into the shop. I close and lock the door behind him, then lead him through the store. The last time we were in this space together, we were studying for finals. I swallow hard as the memory rushes in—bright and painful.

It’s awkward, disarming, having him here. In my space. I should’ve suggested we meet somewhere else, but it's too late now.

The break room is exactly as we left it all those years ago.

I never got around to renovating it. Four wooden high-back chairs crammed around an undersized round table.

A corner counter with a sink, a microwave, a fridge stocked with drinks and snacks.

A time capsule. The air smells faintly of old coffee and dust.

Maybe I should finally throw some glitter paint on the walls like I used to dream about when I was little.

“How was your day?” Roman asks, slipping off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair.

“Huh?” I blink, struggling to focus. I can still see us sitting at this table, drinking root beer, laughing until I snorted soda out my nose. Roman had laughed until his sides hurt. My mom had yelled at us about the mess. I’d spent the next weekend scrubbing the place from top to bottom .

“I asked how your day was.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Fine, I guess.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “Are we going to talk about the weather, too?” The words come out sharper than I intend, and I regret the tone instantly. But it hangs there, tense and uninvited.

“Okay,” Roman says, rolling up his sleeves, his forearms strong and tanned. “If you’d rather cut to the chase…”

“I’m sorry. This is… a lot.” I drop into a chair and release a long breath. “Why don’t you tell me about your day instead?”

Roman gives me a pained look. That same face my heart never forgot. Strong, straight nose. Hazel eyes that see right through me. Dimples absent—he’s not smiling. His jaw is so tight it might crack. His hands grip the back of the chair, body still rigid.

“It was fine. The kids are incredible. I’m settling into the job even faster than I expected.”

Of course he is. Roman was always good at everything. “That’s great. Lots of familiar faces, I’m sure.”

He lets out an exasperated breath and finally sits across from me. His hand covers mine—warm, soft—and the electricity is instant. I resist the urge to pull away. “Look, Frankie,” he says gently, “you were right. Small talk isn't going to work here.”

My phone buzzes loudly in my pocket. I pull it out and glance down— Clay .

Roman sees it too. I catch the question in his eyes.

“Do you need to get that?”

“No. It can wait.” I power it off. Clay knows where I am. He’s probably being protective… or jealous. “Sorry.”

Roman smiles, a small, fleeting thing, but enough for his dimples to flash. Then they’re gone. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

It’s a statement, but I can hear the question it conveys.

“I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t see one on your finger either. No Mrs. Dr. Clarke?” I hold my breath .

“No,” he says with a soft laugh. “Haven’t found anyone who can put up with me long enough to think about that.”

I smirk. More likely he’s the one who doesn’t stick around. “Imagine that.”

Roman licks his lips, and my body betrays me—heat blooming under my skin. I remember too well how his mouth once felt against mine. How he branded me with it.

Then, just like that, the spell breaks.

“Are you going to tell me about Alayna, or are you going to make me beg? God, she looks exactly like you.”

I blink, reeling at the shift. The image of Roman begging has a certain appeal, but I shake it off. “She’s not your daughter.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his hand tightens around mine. He leans in. He smells like sandalwood and something spicy. I don’t know if it’s cologne or shampoo, but I like it.

“Frankie, if you’re only saying that because—”

“She’s not your daughter,” I interrupt, firmer this time. “She’s Clay’s.”

I can’t bring myself to add she’s not mine either . Because she feels like mine. And I’ll claim her, for as long as she’ll let me.

“But she’s fourteen,” he says quietly, pulling his hand back. “I guess that means you moved on pretty damn fast, huh?”

I laugh, a short, ugly sound. “That’s rich.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice sharpens.

“I moved on ? Me ? You left. You ghosted me like those two years meant nothing. I’ve been right here, Roman. I wasn’t hiding. Any of our old friends could’ve helped you find me.”

The tears burn, but I won’t let them fall. Not in front of him. “I think this was a mistake. You should go.”

Roman’s voice drops, cold and quiet. “You didn’t try that hard to reach out either, Frankie.”

And he’s not wrong.

I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. I had tried. For two weeks, I gave it my all—calls, emails, asking anyone who might know how to contact him. But he never responded. And eventually, I gave up. I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself. Not again.

If I hadn’t bumped into him the other day, I’d probably still be sticking to that vow to never be the one to make the first move.

“Alayna isn’t yours. I didn’t cheat, if that’s what you’re worried about. You left. I stayed. And it’s all ancient history now, right? Let’s leave it in the past.”

I can’t believe he thought I’d cheat on him—let alone with Clay .

Clay was with Tasha. Everyone knew that.

Didn’t they? But maybe Roman never really paid attention to Tasha; she was two years older, it was possible he didn’t remember they’d left for college together.

Or maybe he didn’t care enough to remember.

Roman drums his fingers on the table. Then he stops. His chair scrapes back sharply.

“You’re right. This was a mistake. I wish you and your daughter—and Clay—all the happiness in the world. Thanks for clearing that up.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. That it’s not like that. That Alayna only looks like me because she’s my niece, and while I love Clay, it’s never been the romantic kind of love.

I want to tell him that having him here, so close, what a few days ago was only the ghost of old pain, a manageable ache like arthritis before it rains, has now morphed into a soul-crushing weight. I want to tell him that I’m glad to see him. That I still have questions, still care, still feel —

But I say nothing.

Even as the walls around my heart collapse, even as every jagged piece tears through me, I don’t speak. I don’t chase after him.

I let him walk out on me.

All over again.