Page 26

Chloe

A fter a busy lunch rush, I slump against the counter, my feet aching from hours of rushing between tables. The scent of fried clams and lemon butter clings to my clothes and I can’t wait to get home and have a long, hot shower.

I rub my eyes, willing away the exhaustion that's become my constant companion since...well, since everything with Jackson. I tried calling him, but he hasn’t responded, and I don’t know what to do right now. Give him time?

Give me time?

I have this horrible feeling we were in this beautiful bubble of romance, and it’s been shattered by reality. What if none of it was real?

"Hey, Chloe.”

Ugh. Great. Just what I need. Another confrontation with Brendan. He’s been keeping his distance since the last time we argued. I was hoping it would stay that way.

"Your shift doesn't start for another fifteen minutes," I say, my voice clipped.

He hesitates and glances at the floor. "I know. I was hoping we could talk before I clock in."

"I don't think that's a good idea," I reply, heading into the back as I undo my apron.

"Please, Chloe," Brendan persists, his tone uncharacteristically soft. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I...I owe you an apology."

I pause. Brendan? Apologizing? Even when we were together, he wasn’t capable of that.

"Look," I say, turning to look at him, "I don’t think it’s a good idea to get into this—"

"I understand," he interrupts, holding up his hands. "I know I hurt you and I just...I've been reflecting on my actions, and I'd really like a chance to talk properly. If you're willing."

I study him, searching for any hint of the arrogance or charm he usually wields like a shield. Instead, I see only sincerity and...is that regret?

I hang up my apron and grab my bag before turning back to him, giving me a brief moment to steel myself. This is Brendan. The guy who broke up with me over text then practically stalked me when he thought I had moved on already. He’s not a good guy.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, determined to walk away. But Brendan doesn’t move, standing there like some immovable force—though he’s less intimidating than I remember. It’s the lack of bravado that throws me.

“Chloe, please,” he says again, quieter this time. “Just…give me five minutes.”

I let out a slow breath, staring at him.

Every instinct tells me to shut this down, to keep walking and let him stew in whatever guilt has brought him here.

And yet, I hesitate. Maybe it’s my exhaustion weighing me down or maybe it’s the sincerity in his voice—sincerity that feels unfamiliar and disarming.

Or maybe it’s just curiosity.

“Five minutes,” I say finally, holding up a hand. “That’s it.”

His face flickers with relief, and I immediately regret giving in.

Too late now. I lead the way through the back door and step outside, the faint buzz of the kitchen fading as we enter the cool evening air.

The back lot smells like grease and stale saltwater, but it’s quiet.

I lean against the wall and cross my arms. Whatever he’s got to say, I’m not going to let him get away with it being too easy.

“Well?” I prompt. “What’s this all about?”

Brendan shifts his weight, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He reminds me of the boy I first started dating—the one who was still a little nerdy and hadn’t figured out how to manipulate me yet.

“I messed up, Chloe,” he says finally. “I know I did.” He hesitates, his gaze fixed somewhere near his shoes. “I’ve been thinking about how I acted with you…and I, uh, know it wasn’t good.”

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s one way to put it.”

He winces, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I was selfish. And I hurt you.” He looks up, his expression surprisingly raw. “I’m sorry for the way things ended. For how I treated you after. I know I made things harder for you when I should’ve just left you alone.”

A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Is this some kind of twelve-step thing? You going around making amends to people you screwed over?”

“No,” Brendan says quickly. “It’s not like that. I’m not expecting you to forgive me, or to even believe I’ve changed. But I am trying to be better.”

For the first time, I don’t know how to respond. I search his face, waiting for the punchline—for the smirk or the defensive retort. It doesn’t come. It’s unsettling, how genuine he looks. And worse, how much I want to believe him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Brendan,” I admit, softening despite myself. “I appreciate the apology, but it doesn’t change anything.”

He nods, accepting that without protest. “I get it.” He hesitates, rocking back on his heels. “Are you going to Emma’s party this weekend?”

The shift in topic catches me off guard. “Why?”

“Because I’ll be there. And…I thought maybe we could talk more. If you want. I could give you a ride.”

I was planning to go with Jackson. Now, I don’t know what’s happening. I scoff. “You? Driving? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says, shrugging. “I’m not drinking anymore.”

I blink. “Wait, what ?”

Brendan’s mouth quirks in a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah, I know. Hard to believe, right? I just…I’ve been cutting back for a while now. Figured it was time to stop altogether.”

I stare at him, suspicious. “Since when?”

“Most of the month.”

I let that sit in the air, my brain scrambling to reconcile this version of Brendan with the one I used to know—the guy who could barely get through a weekend without a drink in his hand.

Part of me wants to laugh, to tell him I don’t buy it.

But something about the quiet way he says it stops me. [1]

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

He shrugs again, but there’s a carefulness in his voice when he replies. “Because I want you to know I’m trying. That’s all.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My instinct is to push back, to tell him that trying isn’t enough. But as I look at him—standing there with none of his usual bravado, just this awkward honesty—I find that I don’t have the energy for it. Not tonight.

I try to step past him but he shifts in front of me again. "I was an idiot.” He holds up his hands. "I took you for granted, and I hurt you. I've spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I... I hate how I behaved after our break up.”

Sighing, I fold my arms. “And during our break up?”

He shifts from foot to foot. “It wasn’t the best way to break up with someone I know.”

“It was awful, Brendan.”

He nods. “I know, I know.”

“Were you cheating on me?”

Brendan glances around, his mouth pulled into a tight line. “Not exactly but I was…interested in someone else.”

Closing my eyes briefly, I feel a slight weight lift from my shoulder. At least I know the truth.

“I was cowardly, Chloe, and I’m sorry. That stuff with Maisie is over and it was stupid, but I know I can’t take back the hurt I caused.”

I stare at him for a few heartbeats, as if I might be able to see what’s going on inside his head. "Why are you telling me all this now?"

“Losing you was a mistake,” he says. “It woke me up.” He smiles softly. “I miss you.”

“You probably should have thought about that before you broke up with me.”

He nods. "I understand. I'm not asking for anything. I just...I needed you to know that I’m sorry. The way I, uh, treated you...it was inexcusable.”

I study his face, searching for any hint of insincerity. I can’t see anything but I keep my arms folded across my chest, feeling the need to keep myself in defensive mode.

"I'm not asking for another chance," he continues. "I just hope that someday, you can forgive me. And maybe we can be friends again."

"I don’t know, Brendan. Maybe.” I smile to soften my response.

He looks at me for a few moments then presses his lips together. “Ok. You listening to me is more than I deserve, I guess.” Brendan flashes a slightly awkward smile. “Have a great evening.”

“You too,” I say finally, brushing past him to head to my car.

I don’t look back, but I can’t stop replaying the conversation in my head. Part of me feels relieved to hear him take responsibility, but the other part—the louder part—still doesn’t trust him.

Brendan might be saying all the right things, but words are easy. Change is harder.

And yet, as I start my car and pull out of the lot, I can’t help but think about the way he looked tonight. Sincere. Regretful. Different.

Maybe he really has changed.

Or maybe I’m just tired of carrying so much bitterness on my own.