Page 86 of His Orders

His voice, recorded and brief, fills my ear. And then the tone. “Hey. It’s me. I just… I was thinking maybe we should talk. Not about anything bad. Just… maybe about trying. Really trying. You and me.”

34

ETHAN

Ifinish work and head toThe Brass Finch, the cafe where I’m meeting my ex. It’s elegant and timeless with a lovely Old-World charm. Light spills in through the tall windows, glinting off polished brass fixtures and catching on the steam curling from cups lined along the bar. The smell of coffee, sharp and full-bodied, hangs in the air, layered with hints of cinnamon and something sweeter I can’t quite place. Outside, the city murmurs with life, people rushing by in heavy coats and scarves, the faint shuffle of footsteps blending with the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain.

Claire is already seated when I arrive. She rises when she sees me, arms opening in a gesture that is as familiar as it is foreign now, her smile bright and effortless. Her coat is draped over the back of the chair, her posture relaxed, poised in a way that once felt magnetic but now feels rehearsed. She looks almost exactly the same. Hair in soft waves over one shoulder. Eyes quick, assessing. Her lipstick just a shade too bold for morning light, the kind she used to wear when she wanted to make a point without saying a word.

“Ethan,” she says, like the sound of my name still fits in her mouth.

I give a small nod and sit. The leather creaks beneath me, the corner of the table catching against my knee. She gestures to the server, orders a cappuccino with oat milk and a croissant like she’s been doing it every day for years, then turns her attention back to me, eyes bright.

“You look good,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “Busy, but good. The hospital hasn’t worn you out completely yet.”

I offer a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Still standing.”

Her laugh is soft. Delicate. “I saw your name in that hospital feature piece a few months ago. Trauma unit lead. That’s impressive. You always did like the chaos.”

I nod again, let her talk. She tells me about Italy. About the months she spent in Florence working with a boutique gallery that curated exhibitions for old money and new art. She talks about the food, about the air, about how everything there felt more vibrant. Then about her decision to come back, to return to something familiar.

Her voice is smooth, polished. There is no bitterness in it, no edge. Just this casual grace she always wielded when she wanted to steer a conversation. She sips her drink delicately, eyes on me over the rim, waiting for me to ask the question we both know is sitting between us.

So I do. “Why did you want to meet?”

Claire’s smile falters. Not much, just a slight shift at the corner of her mouth. But I see it. I watch her exhale, her fingers trace the edge of her cup before she finally answers.

“Because I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I look at her more closely now. There’s something behind the gloss. A hint of weariness that wasn’t there before. A shadow at the base of her throat where her necklace rests, like she has carried that word around too long without ever letting it out.

“For what?” I ask, though I know.

“For the way I ended things. For how I handled it. For how I hurt you.” She leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, her expression open in a way I never quite learned to trust. “I was scared. And selfish. And I convinced myself that if I just walked away without explaining, it would be easier for both of us. But that wasn’t true. And I know I left a mess behind.”

The air around us stills for a moment. Her words echo, not in sound, but in memory. I remember the night she left. The unread texts. The ring in my drawer. The hollow in my chest that nothing filled for months.

“You cheated,” I say quietly.

She flinches. It’s not dramatic, but it’s honest.

“I did.” Her voice is quieter now. “And I hated myself for it. But instead of facing it, I disappeared. It was easier to pretend I wasn’t the villain if I never heard you say it.”

I should feel something. Anger. Closure. Vindication. But I don’t. I just sit there, letting her apology hang in the space between us like smoke, something without shape or destination.

She watches me carefully, perhaps hoping I’ll offer forgiveness or ask her why. But the question doesn’t interest me anymore. Not when my mind is somewhere else entirely.

Not when I’m thinking of Ivy.

Not when I’m seeing her curled up on the couch in my sweatshirt, hair piled on top of her head, laughing through a spoonful of ice cream because I accidentally bought the spicy ginger flavor instead of vanilla bean. Not when I’m remembering the way her eyes filled with wonder that day in my office, her hand guiding mine to her belly, letting me feel the flutter of our child, the soft, undeniable proof of a life that only exists because two broken people found each other in the ruins.

Not when her voice, not Claire’s, is the one I keep hearing in the back of my mind. Whispering my name like it’s the only thing holding her together.

Claire keeps speaking, something about how she thought of me often, how she used to picture running into me at the market or in a museum somewhere, both of us older, wiser. How maybe, just maybe, things could have been different if timing had been kinder. But I don’t hear the rest of it.

Because somewhere between the start of this coffee and now, it hits me.

She is a memory. Ivy is my future.

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