The moment I slipped behind the café's back door, I pressed my back against the cold brick wall, sucking in a sharp breath. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I tried to steady my pulse. It wasn't working.
I exhaled slowly, my breath shaky, and reached into my apron. My fingertips brushed against the folded parchment, and an unwelcome shiver ran down my spine. The paper felt heavier than it should have, like it wasn't just ink and words but something far more dangerous. The weight of its contents seemed to pulse through the paper, a silent warning.
I should throw it away. Rip it apart. Pretend I never saw it.
And yet, I knew Malcolm knew I wouldn't.
That was the worst part. After all these years, after everything, he still understood me. Knew how my mind worked. Knew that no matter how much distance I tried to put between us, I would still want to know.
Damn him.
Damn him for shattering the fragile boundary I had spent years constructing.
My grip tightened around the letter, the paper's edges pressing into my palm, a grounding sensation—sharp but necessary. Around me, the kitchen buzzed with noise, the clatter of pans and sizzle of oil filling the air, cooks shouting orders over the steam and heat. The chaos was a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me
They were too busy to notice me standing here like I had seen a ghost. Good, that's what I needed now. Invisibility. A moment to gather myself.
I forced myself to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out. Each breath was a battle, my mind racing with a thousand questions and no answers.
But the moment was short-lived.
A sudden jab to my side made me jump, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest. I spun around, eyes wide with alarm.
"Holy shit, Margret," I hissed, nearly dropping the damn parchment as I turned to glare at her. The sudden intrusion had my heart racing, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.
Margret cackled, unbothered by my reaction. "What's with you? You look like you just saw the Grim Reaper." Her laughter echoed in the narrow alley, a stark contrast to the tension coiled inside me.
I shoved the letter deeper into my apron pocket and straightened my posture, forcing my expression into something neutral. "Nothing," I muttered.
Margret's sharp brown eyes narrowed. The way she scrutinized me felt like she could see right through my facade.
Her gaze lingered on me a little too long, and for a second, panic curled in my gut. Did she suspect something?
Then she tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Sooo... how'd it go?"
I frowned. "What?"
"With Malcolm Hayes." She wiggled her brows. "He practically caused a damn scene back there. What did he want?"
I exhaled for what felt like the hundredth time, shaking my head. "I have no idea," I lied smoothly, crossing my fingers behind my back like a child caught stealing sweets.
Margret didn't buy it.
She folded her arms, tapping a finger against her elbow. "Really?"
I forced a shrug. "Really." The word tasted bitter on my tongue, but I managed to keep my voice steady.
She hummed, unconvinced. "Because it sure looked like you two had some unfinished business. You know, with all that dramatic tension and—" she wiggled her fingers in the air, "—broody eye contact."
I rolled my eyes. "You're imagining things."
Margret scoffed. "Am I?" She leaned in slightly. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
That one hit a little too close.
I quickly waved a dismissive hand. "Relax, I'm fine. No trouble. Just... unexpected." My mind raced with the possibilities, each one more troubling than the last.
She studied me for another second, and I fought the urge to shift under her gaze. Then, to my relief, she sighed. "Alright. But you know you can tell me anything, right?"
That was a trap question, but I nodded anyway, knowing fully well that I would never tell anyone anything concerning Malcolm and me. Some secrets were better left where it was.
"Good," she said, clapping her hands. "Now, back to work. We still have customers, and I don't get paid enough to cover your shifts, too." Her voice had a teasing lilt, but there was an edge of impatience in her tone.
I forced a chuckle. "Yeah, yeah." The sound felt hollow, my mind still preoccupied with the letter in my pocket.
I followed her out of the kitchen, but with every step, the letter burned against my skin like a brand. Heavy. Unignorable.
---
The rest of my shift passed in a haze. I took orders, poured coffee, and forced my hands to steady, but my mind was nowhere in it. Each movement felt mechanical—grab, pour, pass, repeat—while my thoughts spun in an endless loop. The weight of the letter in my apron pocket felt like a constant reminder, pulling my thoughts back to Malcolm.
Malcolm.
The name clung to my mind like a stain I couldn't scrub out. Every memory of him resurfaced, clouding my focus.
Why now? After all these years, why reach out to me now?
The questions gnawed at me, restless and urgent. No matter how much I tried to push them aside, they sank their teeth in deeper. I replayed our earlier exchange over and over, searching for clues in his words and expressions.
As I handed a latte to a regular, I caught Margret watching me from the corner of my eye. Her brow was furrowed, concern tightening the corners of her lips. I quickly averted my gaze, focusing on the next order as if the foam art in the cappuccino suddenly demanded my full attention. My hands moved on autopilot, but my heart wasn't in it.
But she wasn't the only one.
I could feel it—the weight of glances brushing against my skin, like a dozen tiny needles pricking at my already fraying nerves. The subtle shifts in conversation whenever I passed. The quick looks my coworkers thought I wouldn't notice. It was as if they sensed something was amiss, their curiosity barely masked by their polite smiles.
And then there was Liam.
That nosy bastard never missed a chance to pry. I could sense him watching, lingering just long enough to make it obvious he was fishing for something. I didn't have to look up to know he was smirking, probably waiting for the right moment to throw some offhanded remark my way.
I clenched my jaw and kept my head down.
Work. Focus. Just get through it. Each task was a lifeline, pulling me through the minutes, then the hours.
But no matter how hard I tried, the weight in my apron pocket was suffocating. The letter burned against my hip, its presence a constant reminder that I was carrying something I shouldn't be. It felt like a ticking time bomb, each second bringing me closer to the brink.
That I was one second away from unraveling.
By the time my shift finally ended, relief hit me like a gasp of fresh air. The oppressive weight lifted slightly, but the anxiety still lingered.
I strode toward the back, weaving past the last few lingering staff, and yanked open my locker. The metal door creaked as I reached for my shirt and jeans. Peeling off my work uniform, I hesitated for just a second before glancing around. The sense of urgency made my heart race, every second feeling like it stretched on forever.
Margret was busy wiping down counters. Liam was talking to someone near the front. No one was paying attention. Their preoccupation was a small mercy. Good.
Moving quickly, I slipped a hand into my apron pocket, fingers brushing against the parchment's rough edges. My stomach tightened. Instead of unfolding it, I stuffed it into my pants pocket and slammed my locker shut. The cold metal against my fingers was a stark reminder of what I carried.
I shoved my hands deep into the pockets, and walked briskly toward the back exit. My footsteps were quick, my pulse quicker. Each step felt like a heartbeat, pushing me closer to a decision I couldn't ignore.