Page 12

Chloe

I knot the strings of my apron around my waist and head out into the restaurant like I do on any other shift, but today something feels off, like there’s tension in the busy restaurant. That's when I spot him.

Brendan.

What’s he doing here? We weren’t meant to work together today. I made sure of it when I swapped shifts with Marcy last week. Yet there he is, moving between the tables with that same easy confidence that once made my heart flutter. Now, just seeing him makes me feel sick.

"Ignore him,” I whisper to myself, tugging the apron a little tighter as if that could somehow armor me against his presence. I was bound to have to work with him eventually.

I pivot on my heel, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile floor, and head toward the drink station. The clinking of glassware replaces the pounding in my chest, and I dive into the mundane safety of lemon wedges and ice cubes.

"Table six wants a refill on their water, and table nine’s ready for their wine," one of the girls says.

"Got it.” I focus on the orders, anything other than Brendan floating about in my peripheral vision.

It helps, kind of.

At least until I remember all those late-night texts—the buzzing of my phone against my nightstand.

The texts swung from flattery to anger, telling me I was never good enough for him, then reminding me of sweet moments we’d once shared.

Whatever his intentions had been, they left me with anxiety and bags under my eyes.

But the messages had stopped suddenly. I don’t know why, but I was so grateful to have him out of my head for a while.

Until now.

"Hey, Chloe." Brendan's voice cuts through the bustle. I don't look up. My gut tightens.

"Busy night, huh?" he adds, leaning against the counter with a nonchalance that feels out of place amidst the evening rush.

"Always is on Fridays," I reply, keeping my tone light while I wipe down a freshly rinsed glass, trying not to show how much I wish he'd chosen another spot to take a break.

"Good to see you're holding up."

"Doing just fine, thanks."

I avoid his gaze, hoping my indifference will send him back to whatever corner he crawled out from. It’s hard to believe those blue eyes could unravel me with nothing more than a glance.

"Yeah? So I've heard. You and Jackson have been hanging out a lot lately, huh?" Brendan leans in closer.

"Jackson's the best," I reply easily. It’s the truth, after all.

"You guys grew close quickly, huh?" The way he says it, like he's picking apart my words, looking for the seams where lies might hide, makes my skin prickle with annoyance.

"Really close," I emphasize, meeting his gaze now. No backing down, no second-guessing. Just Chloe Davenport, standing her ground because nobody gets to question who I’m with. Not anymore. Not after everything that's happened.

"Interesting." He straightens up, that familiar cocky grin playing at the corners of his mouth, but there's a hint of something else there—disapproval, maybe, or disbelief.

"Isn't it?" I quip, turning my attention back to the drinks.

"Sounds serious," Brendan prods, coming around the bar and making a show of helping me with the drinks.

Serious? I almost laugh out loud. Jackson and I have been playing pretend for barely two weeks, and somehow, it feels like the most serious, important moment of my life. All I can think about is Jackson.

And it’s all fake.

"Chloe?" Brendan's voice pulls me back, and I realize I've been staring at the lemon wedge I’m pinching between my fingers for a little too long.

"Sorry, what?" I squeeze the lemon into a glass.

"Nothing, just never seen someone so focused on making a drink before." His tone is light, teasing, but I can sense the edge to it. He's suspicious.

Or something.

The tray of drinks is ready, and I lift it with practiced ease, determined to deliver them to tables filled with people who are definitely not Brendan. I try to walk away, but Brendan stands in my way.

"You know, Jackson’s nice and all, but you could aim higher than a mechanic," he says with a snicker that sets my teeth on edge.

"Excuse me?" I put down the tray and lock gazes with Brendan. His smirk falters as he meets my glare. I never was very good at standing up to him, even when he questioned my clothing choices or who I hung out with.

I really regret ever giving him that power, actually.

"Jackson is more than his job," I tell him. "He's kind, genuine... everything you're not." Even as I say it, I can feel myself growing stronger.

"Chloe, come on," Brendan tries to recover, reaching out as if to placate me with a touch. "I didn't mean—"

"Save it," I cut him off, stepping back before he can make contact. "My choices are none of your business. Not anymore.” The air between us is charged, and I stand taller, feeling an unfamiliar surge of empowerment. "And I won't listen to any BS about Jackson.”

Brendan stares at me for a few moments. He's used to the Chloe who would shrink under his criticism, who would question her worth. But that Chloe is gone now, and I’m so, so glad.

"Whatever," he mutters.

I've hit a nerve, and we both know it.

It's weird watching him walk off, his tall frame retreating, defeated. Relief washes over me. I shouldn't have to defend my choices to anyone, least of all Brendan Thompson.

Turning back to the drink station, I let out a long breath. Jackson would be proud of me.

And then a smile tugs at my lips as I think of Jackson. No one can make me feel like him.

"Chloe, table six is waiting on their drinks!" calls out my manager, snapping me back to reality.

"Got it!" I reply, balancing the tray as I weave through the tables. Each step feels lighter, each breath a little easier. I stood up for myself. I told Brendan where to go.

I wish I’d done it years ago.

Be real with me, Jackson’s voice echoes in my head, from that night we vowed to be honest with each other.

And yet, here I am, tangled in a web of half-truths, pretending not to feel things that are as real as the ache in my chest whenever I see him smile.

I deliver the drinks and head back to pour more, pausing to lean against the shelves, a box of straws digging into my back. Jackson deserves honesty; he's given me nothing but since day one. But how do I admit what I'm only just starting to acknowledge myself?

"Chloe?" My manager Maria approaches.

“Sorry.”

“Is everything okay?” Her forehead is creased in concern.

I smile brightly. “Of course.”

“I heard you and Brendan broke up. If you need a moment…”

The idea of everyone talking about us, of knowing Brendan cheated on me, sends a little shiver down my spine.

“I’m okay,” I say firmly, drawing myself straight.

Because it’s the truth. This Jackson stuff might be messy, and I might even be opening myself up to heartbreak if we continue playing pretend, but Jackson is real.

He’s good and kind, and maybe I can just absorb some of that for this summer and let it all go when I go off to college.

After all, there’s one thing I do know—Jackson is good for me. He’s helped me be stronger and realize what a shitty boyfriend Brendan was. Without even trying, he’s healed my broken heart and allowed me to finally stand up for myself.

No matter what this summer holds, I will always remember that.