Page 20 of I Do, You Don't
“Drew. Your boyfriend?” he asked, half-smiling.
“Sister,” I said, amused. “Nice try.”
He chuckled. “Got it. I think I’m following now.”
His voice was gentler than I expected, not the clipped tone of someone buried in textbooks and ambition. There was warmth in it. And in his silence too, the kind that makes you feel safe.
I sat across from him, careful not to spill my coffee. We talked. And it felt easy. Natural. He didn’t just listen, he heard me. He didn’t look at me like I was broken. He looked at me like I mattered.
“You know,” he said, tapping his pen against the notebook, “you could turn that into something. Help people budget. Save for life events. There’s something there.”
Another spark. A dream I didn’t know I had flickered to life.
I’d never thought of it that way. Budgeting was survival, not something to share. But with him, it felt different. It felt possible.
“Maybe,” I said, smiling shyly. “Maybe I could.”
We talked for hours. The sun dipped low. The diner quieted. The world outside faded. There was only Gideon and me, two strangers who somehow understood each other better than anyone else ever had.
When I finally stood to leave, a strange ache settled in. Not because I wanted to go, but because I didn’t. I wanted to stay. To hear more. To feel more.
“You’re not just a dreamer,” he said, that soft smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve got a plan, Lara. You just need to believe in it.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, well… it’s just about finding a way to make it happen.”
He looked at me like he already knew I would.
We walked out together, something unspoken passing between us. I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment, the moment I realized Gideon wasn’t just a spark. He was everything: my partner, my friend, my future.
And in that moment, I believed it. I believed in love at first sight.
But that was then.
This is now.
Now, Gideon, Delilah, and Connor walk in.
Even though Gideon looks like he hasn’t slept in days, something in his posture grates. He carries himself like a man trying to keep the pieces from falling apart, but his energy is fractured, scattered in the same waymine is. There’s no apology in his eyes. Just confusion. Guilt. But not the kind I need. It’s the kind that makes me feel more abandoned than ever.
Delilah is glued to his side, of course. Her fingers linger on his arm a moment too long. She leans in, whispering something into his ear. I can feel the weight of it, the intimacy, like she’s marking him, making sure I see it. My stomach turns.
Gideon doesn’t look at me. Not at first. His gaze is distant, lost somewhere I can’t reach. He picks at the menu, distracted, his hands trembling slightly. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s the pressure of pretending everything’s fine. But I see it. It’s not anger. It’s silence—the kind that says he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to be here. And still, no apology. No acknowledgment that he left me at the altar.
Then Delilah leans in again, her lips brushing his ear. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. The way she keeps him inside her space makes me feel invisible. She’s winning. And she wants me to know it.
Gideon finally glances my way. Just a flicker. His eyes meet mine for a breath, then dart away. He’s searching for something—an explanation. But he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand.
Anger rises, sharp and hot in my chest. I push it down. I focus on my work.
My boss steps in, intercepting them before I have to. He takes their order, and I exhale. At least I won’t have to face them directly.
Then I hear it—Delilah’s laugh. Too loud. Too bright. It slices through the air like a blade. I hate that she’s laughing. That she’s comfortable. That she’s here, acting like nothing’s changed.
I try to ignore them, but my eyes keep drifting to their table. Gideon’s gaze keeps finding mine—dark, haunted, searching. Like he’s trying to read my face, trying to make sense of something he never earned the right to understand.
I catch a moment of my boss leaning in toward their table, speaking low. I can’t hear the words, but I see the shift. Their conversation halts. Their expressions tighten. Whatever he said, it landed.
As he passes me, he leans in, voice low. “I told them the same thing, Lara. No words. No glances. This isn’t a WWE ring. If they so much as mutter, they’re banned. Same goes for you. Speak to them, and you’re fired.”
