Page 50 of One Room Vacancy
I mean…itissoft. But that’s not why I kept it.
I kept it because I wanted something of his that wasn’t temporary. Something that didn’t come with strings or stipulations or Kara-shaped expiration dates. I wanted proof that, for one night, I mattered enough to be missed—that when he rolled over and realized I was gone, he noticed.
He didn’t call, of course he didn’t. And I told myself I didn’t care. I folded the shirt, stuck it in the bottom of a drawer, and didn’t wear it again for months.
But I never got rid of it, either.
Because some part of me was still waiting to be the exception, the one time he didn’t go back to her.
And now here we are. Sharing breakfast as though that history isn’t still humming under the surface. As though I didn’t spend the better part of last year trying to forget the exact way he’s standing right now. Barefoot, shoulders relaxed, like he’s good at mornings.
Like we’ve ever had one like this before.
He slides the plate a little closer to me and hands over a fork. I take it without speaking, twirl it between my fingers like I’m trying to work up the nerve to use it.
He breaks the silence first.
“You still like the maple ones, right?”
I nod, and he spears one, sets it on my side of the plate like a peace offering.
I should say thank you, should smile or make a joke, pretend this is no big deal, but my throat’s tight and my chest feels full and hollow all at once, so I just eat it instead.
He doesn’t comment, just grabs one for himself and leans his hip against the counter like we do this all the time.
We eat like that for a while: quiet, slow, like neither of us knows what to do with the space we’ve made.
Because this wasn’t who we were, not even close, but maybe, if I’m honest with myself, it was who I wanted us to be, just once.
He catches me watching him and lifts a brow. “What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
I think we both know that’s a lie.
We continue to eat in silence. Not the strained kind. Just…quiet, like neither of us wants to be the first to break whatever this is.
I’m halfway through the second sausage when a memory sneaks up on me—sharp and vivid, like the kind that’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface.
“Do you remember that night we ended up at that shitty twenty-four-hour diner off Piedmont?” I ask, twirling the fork between my fingers.
Gabe looks over, brow furrowed. “Which time?”
“The one where everyone bailed after the bar,” I say. “Jackson went home with Gen—pretty sure that was the first weekend after Gen finally admitted her feelings for him. Wes and Savannah were making out against her car like they forgot the rest of us existed. And Hannah—God.” I laugh under my breath. “She was in town visiting and got so drunk she couldn’t walk.”
Gabe starts to grin, the memory clicking into place. “Right. Liam threw her over his shoulder like a fireman.”
“She screamed at him the whole time,” I say, grinning. “Called him a misogynist. Bit him on the shoulder.”
“And then asked for mozzarella sticks,” he adds, shaking his head.
I snort. “She was wearing those glitter heels that broke before we even got out of the Uber.”
“And she made you take them off for her.”
“Because I still had feeling in my fingers,” I say, like that excuses it. “You gave her your socks.”
“Which she left in the booth.”
