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“Whereas you were everywhere,” she says. It’s such a simple statement, but there’s a pinch of pain in her tone. I can’t decide what would be worse—the absolute removal of her from my life that I experienced or the oversaturation of me in hers.

“It was all a little crazy.” I nod in acknowledgement.

I left teaching as soon as I finished my degree. I never taught past the placement I had at her school. I graduated, and instead of getting a job related to anything in teaching, I took a gamble on acting. Acting was a passion through my entire life, but my parents had refused to entertain the idea. They wanted me to have a reliable and worthwhile career, one they could brag about to friends. They wanted me to be a professor rather than teaching secondary-school children, but they eventually conceded. But, a week after I finished my degree, there was an open casting call for a popular British show. I took my shot and landed a minor part, which evolved into a major one when the fanbase grew beyond the producers’ expectations. It caused a lot of frustrations with my family, but I was committed.

Everything snowballed, and I got a following bigger than I expected. I always thought there would be some noise around my small stint in teaching, but there was never a peep. No articles about me as a teacher. No whisper that there had ever been any improper friendship with a student. No exposé on what happened next. Nothing but the icy grip I had in my heart. I always imagined that it would come out at some point, that maybe Delilah would sell a tell-all story, talk about that first morning in the kitchen and every conversation we had that followed. Conversations and heartbreak. But, again, there was nothing.

“My class will be arriving soon,” she says, switching the topic. “You really should get going before anybody sees you here.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. I know she’s right. If I choose to stay here, I’m likely to be talked about. My life isn’t at any crazy level of press and intrusion, but at times like this—being the lead of an indie film—it ramps up a bit. The next few months when the film is being promoted means I’ll be talked about. There will be pictures of me and my co-stars in the UK newspapers and a few website updates about me. Being seen in a dressmakers’ shop will stir some intrigue.

“What would you say if I came back later?” I ask.

“You already paid for the shirt.” There’s the merest hint of a smile tugging up the corner of her lips.

“How about I pay for dinner?”

“So, wait, being caught in my shop could be bad for you, but being seen out having dinner would be okay?”

“I would really like to catch up. Properly, I mean.”

I watch as she mulls this over. I wait for her to tell me to get lost, to walk out of her shop and consider myself banished for life. It feels like it takes an agonisingly long time before she looks at me again.

“You should go.”

With a nod, I straighten myself up and take a few steps towards the door, but then I double back. I pick up a pad of paper and a pen near her till and write my mobile number down. Ripping the page from the pad, I fold it in half, step over to her, and hold it out.

“In case you change your mind,” I state.

She looks at the paper between my fingers like it’s potentially poisoned, but then she takes it from me. I watch as she stuffs it into the pocket of her dress.

“Goodbye, Joseph.” Her tone has nothing but dismissal in it.

I nod curtly before turning and walking to the door. I focus on the door, the exit to the street. Away from the humiliation and the oddly crushing disappointment I feel. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this suddenly feels miles apart from where I would want it to be.

As I step onto the street, my mobile buzzes. I expect it will be Pippa, checking up on me or updating me with interview requirements. I cross the street and don’t take my phone out of my pocket until I’m in my car.

An unknown number, but clearly Delilah.

I have plans after work, but do you want to meet me afterwards for a drink? Maybe meet me here at 8?

My fingers are swift to pass across the keys, telling her I’d love to meet her.

I don’t look back at the shop. She acknowledges my message with only a thumbs-up image. I throw my phone into the centre console and start the engine. I drive in the direction of home, and I can’t stop the smile on my face as I think about tonight and continuing our trip down memory lane.

There’s a kick of anticipation in my stomach. It’s a rekindling of something I haven’t felt in years. Despite the weariness I felt this morning, I suddenly can’t wait to see how the day unfolds.

Twelve years ago, everything we built between us unravelled. It was by my hand, entirely my fault, and something that has sat uneasy on my conscience since. I can’t decide if I’m going to make things more complicated than they ever were or if this will give both of us peace. I can’t be the only one haunted by the memories of what happened. It can’t be just me who has a boxful of memories with a lid that refuses to stay fully shut, who deals with those memories seeping out during the loneliest hours in the deepest parts of the night.

I know that having drinks tonight might be a disaster. Red sirens are going off in my head. The warnings tell me I should have just left everything after last night. I could have sent somebody to pay for the shirt. I could have just ignored it and put it all to the back of my mind. I don’t have to do this. Part of me screams that I should be running as far away from this situation as I can. Except another part of me is telling me to stay. Talk. See where this leads.

My life might unravel because of a spilt cup of coffee, but I know it started long before then. I’ve been waiting for this moment for over a decade. And in less than eleven hours, I’ll face my fate.

Whether I’ll end up paying for my sins remains to be seen.

As I drive, I remind myself that it wasn’t all bad. There were times when I offered her a lifeline. I offered sanctuary from the storm. I provided some light in her dark days. I never meant to become part of the problem, and I hope she knows that. If not, I hope I can make her see that I never meant to break her heart.

I want her to know that when I broke hers, I broke my own as well. That despite the highlights of my life splashed in the papers for the world to see, she was always there. Under my skin. In my head. Etched into the tapestry of my life. She’s somebody I’ve never truly been able to run from.