Page 11 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

The Uber smells faintly of french fries and an overzealous citrus air freshener. The kind that clings to the air, sharp and cloying in the back seat. I don’t mind. It’s better than the sterile, recycled airport air or the heavy perfume of strangers squeezed into too-small rows.

My phone buzzes in my hand. A push notification from my work email lights up the screen.

Thanks for the report, Abby. It was perfect as always.

You’ve got two full weeks before we kick off the next quarter’s banquet planning, so enjoy the time off—you’ve more than earned it.

IT will send over remote access instructions tomorrow in case you need them.

But really—rest. It’ll be a slow stretch. Take advantage of it.

-Debra

I reread it twice, my thumb hovering over the screen.

I am grateful. Debra’s a wonderful boss—supportive, trusting, the kind of person who doesn’t hover or micromanage.

But still. That familiar tightness coils in my chest. Because I don’t know how to rest. Not really. Not when I’m used to pushing myself to the edge of burnout just to make sure no one’s disappointed. Not when stillness feels more like a void to fill than a break to take.

She says I’ve earned the time off. But all I can think about is the next deadline. The next list. The next thing I need to prove I can handle without dropping the ball.

I close my email and stare out the window.

It’s past nine. The sky’s gone full dark, but the superstore just off the highway in Maple Grove glows like a lighthouse. Huge blue letters buzz faintly above the doors, flickering at the edges like even the sign has had a long day.

The Uber pulls into the fire lane, tires crunching softly over loose gravel. I thank the driver and haul my bags out of the trunk, one in each hand. The sliding glass doors part with a soft whoosh, and I step into the bright, too-cold chill of fluorescent light and late-night quiet.

Only a few carts are corralled near the entrance, and the parking lot is mostly empty—just how I hoped it’d be.

Somewhere down one of the aisles, I catch the faint squeak of a restocking cart and the low murmur of employees talking about their weekend.

The whole store feels like it’s exhaling. Dim, quiet, easy to disappear into.

I pull a cart from the row and hoist my suitcases inside, tucking them in like precious cargo, leaving one corner open. Just enough room for the essentials. The front fold-down seat—the one meant for little kids—is already jammed with my tote bag. It’s all improvisation at this point.

I push the cart forward, wheels groaning under the weight, and catch a glimpse of myself in the freezer aisle glass as I pass. I barely recognize me.

I watched a twenty-minute video on the plane about color theory. How to layer green eyeshadow under concealer, how to press peach tones over purple-blue skin, how to set it all with a light hand and a prayer. I did my best in the airport bathroom, I really did. But it wasn’t enough.

So the sunglasses stay on. Even now, inside .

My hair’s down, on purpose. Long enough to fall into my face, just in case. I know I look ridiculous. But it’s better than the alternative.

Better than being seen like this.

I toss in a half-loaf of sourdough, some bananas, two premade salads, and a couple apples.

Peanut butter, a pack of paper plates, a roll of paper towels, and some toilet paper join the cart.

Basics only. I’m halfway to the checkout when I pass the cookie aisle.

The Oreos stop me in my tracks. Two rows down, a shelf tag announces limited edition.

"Birthday cake and chocolate covered pretzel?" I hum quietly. Oreo never releases two limited edition flavors at once, so I'm sure one is left over from the previous run. But Oreos take forever to go bad, and frankly, I really want to try them both. I toss both packages into the cart.

“Of all the aisles, in all the stores, in all the cities . . .”

The voice is low and unmistakably familiar. My shoulders jerk up before I even turn.

Jake Lansing stands at the end of the aisle, grocery basket in one hand, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

My ex-boyfriend. My almost -fiancé.

Shit .

He looks the same in the ways that matter—same white button-down, same practiced charm. But something behind his eyes is different. Not colder exactly, just sharper. Like he’s evaluating me. Like I’m something he didn’t expect to find on the shelf.

“. . . this is where I find you,” he finishes, gaze locked on mine.

My heart thuds hard once, too loud in my chest. “What are you doing here, Jake?”

It comes out sharper than I mean it to. But in my defense, I chose this town on purpose. One buffer town away from recognition. From this .

He shifts the grocery basket to his other hand and rocks back on his heels with a low whistle. "Wow, Abs. That’s all you’ve got after all this time?”

“Sorry.” I clear my throat, burying the wince behind my sunglasses. God, I hate that nickname. “I’m just . . . surprised to see you here, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well. Gotta get groceries.” He gestures lazily to the shelf behind me, like we’re coworkers exchanging pleasantries in a break room. Like we weren’t ever anything more than casual.

Like he didn’t used to touch me like he knew me.

Maybe he didn’t, though. Not really.

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering a little too long on the sunglasses, the loose hair, and the oversized hoodie I threw on to hide myself. He always hated this hoodie, but that tracks, considering he never liked Beau either.

“What about you?” he asks, brow lifted. “What brings you to Maple Grove tonight? And in sunglasses?”

My pulse jumps. It takes everything in me not to cross my arms or curl in on myself.

“Cookie emergency,” I say, fumbling for the lie. “And I, uh—migraine, so . . .”

Inside, I’m screaming. At him. At myself. To stop talking. To say more. To act normal. Be normal. Like I didn’t see a ghost the second he spoke.

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know he remembers. At least the cookie part. The migraine is more of a half-truth. I do have a headache, but it’s not the kind darkness can fix.

His smile twitches, then fades into something closer to a sneer. “Yeah. I don’t miss that.”

“Right,” I murmur, the awkwardness thickening like static in the air around us.

He once told me my obsession with trying every limited edition Oreo was cute. Quirky, even.

But looking at him now, I wonder if maybe we were both pretending, just in different ways.

Every part of me wants to duck and run, but my feet stay rooted to the tile.

My skin prickles with awareness, heat creeping up the back of my neck like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.

Embarrassment crawls under my skin in red-hot strokes, sharp and sour.

I don’t even know what I’m embarrassed about.

The sunglasses? The lie? The fact that I let someone who didn’t really see me get so close for so long?

That I broke up with him? That I like Oreos?

Jake exhales slowly, the sound edging toward a condescending laugh.

“You know, I caught myself looking for them around Christmas.” He nods toward the shelf like it might offer a lifeline.

“Habit, I guess. I spent years of my life in these aisles with you, hunting down whatever weird flavor they released that month. Guess it takes a while to unlearn that.”

The weight of what he’s not saying lands square between us.

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry, Jake.” It comes out quiet. Automatic. But not dishonest.

I am sorry he got hurt. I’m just not sorry I left.

Ending things was right. Long overdue, even if it wrecked him in the process. If I’m being honest, it felt less like heartbreak and more like cutting the last fraying tether on something I’d been holding onto for too long.

“ Wrong time , right?” he says with a grin that doesn’t land. It's misshapen with something bitter around the edges.

“Right.” I nod once, throat dry. The inflection makes me pause. Like he’s repeating back to me something I must’ve said that day.

The day everything burned too hot, too fast. When my skin felt like it was on fire, like the heat from the candlelit tables and the pressure of every eye on us had fused into one unbearable blaze.

He knelt in the middle of the restaurant, just before dessert.

Pulled out the ring like it was a punchline to a joke I didn’t understand.

I kissed him and let him slide it on my finger. Because I didn’t know what else to do.

A week later, I told him I couldn't marry him. And then I told him goodbye.

He didn’t take it well.

This is only the third time I’ve seen him since. My parents still see him more often than I do.

That’s the thing about Jake. He was always polite, clean-cut, the kind of guy you could bring home to dinner. Even now, I wouldn't be surprised if he still tried to stop by to help Dad with yard work, or picked up a pie for Mom at the farmer's market like nothing ever happened.

His gaze drops to my cart, lingering on my suitcases. “You in town for a while?”

Panic prickles at the base of my neck. Because if Jake sees me, it’s only a matter of time before my parents do. And they can’t. Not like this. Not tired and unraveling and wearing sunglasses inside a grocery store like I’m hiding from the world.

They’ll ask questions. They’ll look at me too long. And I can’t take that. Not right now.

I paste on a quick smile. “Actually, I’m heading back to the West Coast. Just picking up a few things to leave at my sister’s place before my redeye.”

The lie tumbles out with the kind of ease that should bother me more than it does.

Jake nods slowly. “Right. Well—when you’re back, let me know. We could grab a drink. Or dinner. Whatever you want.”

“Absolutely,” I say, already taking a step back. I won’t. And it has nothing to do with laying low at the cabin I inherited. "I gotta go." I tilt my head a little and pivot at the end of the aisle.