He grabbed a table and ordered a beer while scrolling through memes. Soon, his phone started pinging nonstop with new notifications, as his newest post went viral. It turned out if you suggested your wife hire a goofy ginger cat to run the city—why not put the fat cats in charge for real?—netizens loved it. He was laughing at a list someone had made of Goliath’s qualifications when a shadow fell across the wood.

Glancing up and expecting Dante, he felt like the room went still around him, and his heart practically froze in his chest. Sarah. Sarah Croft. Wait, that was her maiden name. The room seemed to get smaller and hotter as she smiled at him as if she hadn’t once ripped his heart out and stepped on it.

“You look amazing,” she said, scanning him in a manner that felt intrusive.

Sarah didn’t have the right to look at him that way. Nobody but Leanne did. As if from a great distance, he noticed she’d lost weight, the last ten pounds he’d always thought looked good on her, and her light-brown hair was streaked blond. She’d always preferred natural makeup, and that hadn’t changed, though her brown eyes were darker than he recalled. After the way things ended between them, he couldn’t bring himself to return the compliment.

His face might as well be covered in cement, like the muscles wouldn’t even move, and his throat felt tight. Trev prayed that his voice didn’t reflect the strain. “Thanks.”

She cocked her head with a friendly smile, setting a hand on his table as if she meant to linger. “You must be wondering why I’m in St. Claire.”

He just stared at her because, in fact, he wasn’t. Words wouldn’t come for this awkward, awful situation. What even were words? Instead, he got a live-action replay in his brain of how hard he’d cried when she’d left, the way he’d pleaded for one last chance to get his shit together. You’ll die in this basement. In all likelihood, the only shock from their breakup was that she hadn’t left when he was forced to move back home—that she’d given him a little time.

Somehow she was still talking. “I’m here for my cousin’s wedding. Sent you the invitation for mine, but you didn’t respond.”

Are you surprised?

If only teleportation was a thing, he’d vanish, or hell, maybe he’d poof her somewhere else, so she wouldn’t be standing there staring at him, waiting for…what? Did she need closure or something? Until the request for RSVP arrived, he’d have said Sarah would answer any questions about him with a head toss and, “Trevor who?”

“I’ve been busy,” he said. “Did you need something else?”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”