Page 99 of Ashes of Us
I was a woman driving across town with her ex-fiancé's favorite cake, hoping he'd understand what it meant without her having to say it out loud.
The plan was simple: park, walk in, hand it to whoever was at the front desk, say "This is for Captain Sullivan,” and leave. No conversation, no awkward explanations. Just a gesture, clean and simple.
I turned onto Oak Street and Station 47 appeared ahead—red brick, three bay doors, lights on in the common room windows.
My heart was doing something complicated in my chest.
I could still turn around, drive home, and eat this entire cake myself. There was still time for me to pretend I'd never had this stupid idea.
But I didn't turn around.
Instead, I pulled into the parking lot, looking for a spot near the entrance.
And that's when I saw him.
Liam stood near his truck in the side lot, talking to a woman. She was attractive—dark hair, well-dressed, professional-looking in a way that made my stomach clench. They were standing close, heads bent toward each other like they were discussing something important. He held a gift bag in one hand. Nice paper, tissue paper poking out the top.
The woman said something and he smiled. It wasn’t the careful smile he'd been giving me lately, but something easier. More relaxed.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel and I focused on the bag he was holding. It had to be a gift, the kind you get from someone who matters.
She touched his arm, the touch brief and casual. It spoke of comfort between them. Liam didn't pull away, just kept talking, gesturing with his free hand while the gift bag dangled from the other.
My foot found the brake without me telling it to.
I sat there, engine idling, watching them. She laughed at something he said. He looked down at the bag in his hand, then back at her, said something that made her nod enthusiastically.
My chest felt hollow.
I didn't know who she was, but I knew exactly what this was. A woman bringing him something on his birthday. Him standing in a parking lot with a gift, smiling at her in a way that suggested this wasn't their first conversation. This wasn't casual.
He'd said he was working a double. Said it was just another birthday, low-key, nothing special.
But he hadn't mentioned her.
Maybe he hadn't wanted to. Maybe it wasn't any of my business anymore.
Maybe while I'd been slowly opening up, carefully letting him back in, he'd been moving forward. Moving on.
With someone else.
I put the van in reverse, backing out as quietly as possible before he could turn around and see me sitting there like a fool.
The cake shifted slightly in its box. "Happy Birthday" written in careful script across pristine white frosting. Four hours of work, eighteen months of baggage, and one stupid, hopeful gesture that suddenly felt like the most humiliating thing I'd ever done.
I drove home with blurred vision, hands shaking on the wheel, throat so tight I could barely breathe.
The cake sat in its box on my passenger seat, perfect and useless.
I didn't let myself cry until I was inside my apartment with the door locked behind me.
Then I cried for everything: for the cake I'd made, for the almost-kiss that haunted me, for the hope I'd let myself feel, for the woman in the parking lot who got to smile at him on hisbirthday while I sat alone in my kitchen at midnight, staring at a chocolate-espresso cake I couldn't bring myself to throw away.
Maya's warning echoed in my head:Be careful. I don't want to see you broken again.
Too late.
I was already breaking.
