Page 50 of I Do, You Don't

Gideon sits across from me. Two mugs between us, steam curling into the air, and we just talk. No rush. No agenda. Remembering each other by inches.

He’s different now. Not in a way you’d notice across a crowded room, but in the details you only catch if you stay: the steadiness of his gaze, the quiet patience of his hands around a cup. He listens. Really listens. When I talk about my business, his eyes don’t flick to a clock or a phone. They don’t wander at all. He’s present in a way that feels both unfamiliar and ancient, like something I’ve always known. It’s the man I once imagined loving, but here he is, real, breathing the same air.

“I’m just going to run to the bathroom,” I say, fingers brushing the edge of my clutch.

He nods and rises with me, gentle in the movement. “I’ll grab us another round of lattes.”

I slip past the tables. The noise is soft, laughter, voices humming together, nobody really watching. The restroom is down a long hallway, tucked behind a door older than the rest of the place.

A man stands too close to it. Mid-to-late forties. Unshaven. Something off in the crooked set of his mouth, in the way his eyes follow me. It isn't a curiosity. It’s sharper, wrong. My skin prickles. I quicken my pace, heart thudding in a strange, fluttery rhythm.

He follows.

I slip inside, lock the door, press my back to it. I wait. One minute. Two. Nothing. Just silence and the pounding of my heart, too loud in the small room.

When I finally wash my hands, I try to look normal in the mirror. I don’t. My fingers tremble against the sink.

Back at the table, Gideon is already standing. His smile falls the second he sees me. He doesn’t ask. His body just shifts, protective, instinctive, like he was built for it.

“What happened?” His voice is low, edged with something dangerous.

“There was a man,” I say, the words stumbling out. “He followed me. He was standing right outside the restroom.”

For a second, I’m sure I sound paranoid. I brace for it.

But Gideon doesn’t doubt. Not even a flicker. He just pulls me in,one arm firm around my waist, the other already reaching for his phone.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, and the sound is a promise. “I’ll handle it.”

His thumbs move fast, practiced, before his eyes return to mine, dark, intent, unshaken. He doesn’t let go. “I’m not leaving you alone again,” he says. “Not for a second.”

Relief sweeps through me, sudden and encompassing, and my eyes sting with the start of tears. He believes me. That’s all. He believes me. No accusations. No minimizing. No, “are you sure?” Or, “maybe you misunderstood.” Just trust. Just action.

The feeling is like a secret sunrise breaking open inside my chest.

His phone rings. The sound is abrupt in the hush. Calvin. Gideon’s voice sharpens, all warmth folded away.

“Calvin,” he says, brisk and sure. “We have a problem. A man was following Lara in the café. I’ll send you the details.”

He doesn’t wait for questions. He hangs up, eyes steady, mouth set in a hard line of purpose.

Calvin and Gideon aren't friends, but I know they're working on it, at least when it comes to building mutual respect. Not like Gideon and Delilah, who aren’t speaking anymore. She betrayed us in ways we can never forgive. I don’t hate her now, not really. The memory of her, hunched and crying on Calvin’s office floor, isn’t monstrous; it’s sad. Still, forgiveness is a bridge I’m not ready to cross.

Calvin and she are a different story.

“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it, every syllable.

He smiles at me then, a real, startled smile, and I feel something settle into place. This isn’t erasure. It’s rebuilding. We aren’t pretending the past didn’t happen. We’re laying down something new: honesty, trust, the choice to be on the same side at last.