Page 22 of Worth the Wait

"Have lunch with me today," I say, the words escaping before I can reconsider. "There's a place a few blocks from here. Great sandwiches."

Her eyes widen, surprise flashing across her features before she can mask it. "Lunch?"

"Just lunch," I clarify, though we both know there's no such thing asjustanything between us. "A chance to catch up without the glass walls and watching eyes."

Something flickers across her face—conflict, consideration, a momentary crack in her perfect composure. Then, unexpectedly, she replies, "Okay."

"Okay?" I repeat, not bothering to hide my surprise.

"Sure. Why not?" She shrugs, the casual gesture at odds with the tension humming between us. "Text me when you're ready."

She brushes past me, close enough that I catch another hint of her perfume and feel the ghost of her body heat. I watch her go, wondering if I've just made the biggest mistake since lettingher walk away eight years ago, or if this is the first step toward something I've hardly dared to hope for.

The restaurant iscasual but private, tucked away on a side street where we're unlikely to run into colleagues. Tarryn sits across from me, sunlight streaming through the window painting golden highlights in her hair. She studies the menu with unnecessary intensity, using it as a shield between us.

"The turkey avocado is their specialty," I offer, desperate to break the heaviness settling over our table.

"Hmm," she responds, noncommittal. When the waiter appears, she orders a salad instead.

We exchange stilted pleasantries about work projects and office politics, skirting around the elephant in the room that feels like it’s now sitting on my chest. But with each passing minute, the superficial conversation grates on me, feeling increasingly hollow compared to what remains unspoken.

"Tarryn," I finally interrupt her careful analysis of the Westfield contract timeline. "I didn't ask you to lunch to talk about work."

Her fingers still around her water glass, knuckles whitening slightly. "Then why did you?"

I take a deep breath, setting down my utensils. "I need to clear the air. About what happened between us."

"Jackson—"

"Please," I cut her off, needing to say this before I lose my nerve. "Just… let me explain. It’s about why I never did show up to college, it’s about my father's heart attack.”

“Oh my God.” Her hand shoots upward to cover her mouth as a small gasp falls from her lips.

“I just want to explain.”

She sits back, something vulnerable flashing across her features before she nods once, giving me permission to continue.

"My father collapsed in his office," I begin, the memory still sharp enough to make my chest tighten. "One minute we were arguing about inventory systems, the next he was on the floor, clutching his chest. Everything happened so fast after that—the ambulance, the hospital, the doctors talking about blockages and procedures."

Tarryn's expression softens, her guard lowering incrementally as I continue.

"I tried to call you," I admit, the confession burning my throat. "Multiple times. Every call went straight to voicemail. I even emailed, but… nothing."

"I blocked your number," she says quietly, regret coloring her voice. "After our last fight, I just… I couldn't keep doing it. The distance, the anger. It was destroying me."

The revelation lands like a physical blow, though it confirms what I've long suspected. "I know I behaved horribly," I tell her, forcing myself to maintain eye contact, to own my part in our dissolution. "I was frustrated and scared, and taking it out on you wasn't fair."

She swallows, a small, vulnerable gesture that makes my heart ache. "We were both young. Both trying to navigate impossible situations."

“I left you alone with so many questions," I acknowledge. "I shut down when you needed me to open up. And by the time I was ready to fight for us, you'd already moved on."

The words hang between us, heavy with years of regret and what-ifs. Tarryn looks down at her plate, pushing her salad around with her fork without purpose.

"Did you?" she asks suddenly, her eyes meeting mine with surprising directness. "Move on?"

The question catches me off guard, strips away my prepared script. "I tried," I admit, the truth raw and unfiltered. "God knows I tried. But…"

Her phone buzzes against the table, the screen lighting up with a text from Mark. I catch a fragment of the message—something about dinner plans—before she quickly flips it over, color rising in her cheeks.

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