I didn’t drive off right away.
Just sat there, both hands gripping the wheel like I might physically keep myself from unraveling.
God. What the hell waswrongwith me?
I wasn’t angry at him — or, okay, Iwas, but not the way I thought I’d be. I was angry atme. For buying into it. For letting some half-flirty, half-forgottencelebritywalk into my life and knock me off-kilter like I was nineteen again and swooning over an autographed poster.
He’d smiled at me. He’d made a few charming little jokes. He’d shown up at the bookstore like a scene from a script and I’d let myselfwantsomething from it. Fromhim. I’d let myself believe, just for a second, that maybe the chemistry wasn’t all in my head. That maybe this was something more than coincidence and Instagram and a napkin that had no business still living in my nightstand drawer.
God. I wassostupid.
Ofcoursehe hadn’t told me the name of the film. Of course he’d just assumed I’d be flattered by some casual little “maybe they’ll write about this someday” comment, like my life was some quirky B-plot in his latest comeback project.
And me? Until that moment, I’d sat there grinning like an idiot. Flushed and fluttery and waiting for him to say something meaningful, like he knew what that napkin had meant to me. Likehe wasn’t just being polite. Or bored. Or worse — playing the part of the guy he used to be.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stop the hot sting from rising.
This wasso humiliating.
How could I have misread everything so badly?
But god — How could there still be a part of me thatwantedhim to chase after me?
I didn’t go back to work.
I told myself I was going to — I even pulled into the parking lot, stared at the mural on the side of the store like it might reset something in me — but I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face my manager’s knowing looks or the inevitable ‘how’d lunch go?’ with a smile that didn’t crack.
So I drove home. Let myself in. Didn’t bother to take off my shoes, and prayed that my dad was too caught up in his work to realize I was home four hours early.
The silence in the house felt louder than the street traffic outside. I dropped my keys in the bowl and just… stood there. In the middle of the living room. Hands still clenched like I might throw a punch or burst into tears.
God, Joel wouldlovethis.
Not Ansel. Joel.
Because why the fuck would I deserve anything better than that? Who was I to think I might have a second chance at this stupid relationship shit?
Because ofcourseI fell for the first man who looked at me like I was interesting. Of course I let a pretty face and a clever smile and one goddamn napkin undo half a year of progress. I’d spent so long rebuilding myself — brick by careful brick — and in the space of a few days, I was already cracking at the seams.
Not because of Ansel.
Because I let myselfhopeagain, even for just a minute.
I sat on the floor. Right there by the door, in my coat, in my shoes, like some woman in a sad indie film who didn’t know how to leave the scene.
What was I even thinking? That a guy like that — all scruffy charm and good lighting — was going to sweep me into some second-chance fairytale? That I wasworthyof something like that?
I curled my arms around my knees.
Joel used to say I was too sensitive. That I dramatized everything. That I made mountains out of molehills and feelings out of moments.
Maybe he was right.
Because here I was. Crying in my coat. Over a man I’d known for maybe two days — if you counted the convention.
But it wasn’tjusthim. It was the ache of everything before him. The years of not being seen. The way I still flinched when someone raised their voice. The part of me that still scanned for exits every time I entered a room.
I should have called Dr. Tilly. I felt myself spiraling hard. I hadn’t thought this much about Joel in forever.
