Page 15 of Wrapped Up

I've tried to find her. God knows I’ve tried. But it's like she never existed—just a fleeting moment of connection in a world that seems a lot emptier without her.

The image of Sarah flashes through my mind—Sarah, standing in our bedroom, tears streaming down her face as she confessed to cheating on me. On our anniversary, no less.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” she'd sobbed. “It just happened. I never meant to hurt you.”

I clench my fist, the old anger and hurt rising like bile in my throat. I'd thought I was past this, but the memory of that night at the club, the possibility of something real, is bringing it all back.

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.

As I'm giving myself a final once-over in the mirror, my phone buzzes. Honey's face pops up on the screen, her tongue sticking out in the ridiculous selfie she insists on using for her contact photo.

I swipe to answer. “What's up, troublemaker?”

“Just checking to make sure you haven't chickened out on this dinner party,” Honey's voice chirps through the speaker. “You know, your natural habitat is dark clubs and brooding silences.”

I roll my eyes, even though she can't see me. “I'm wounded. I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of adult socialization.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, skepticism dripping from her voice. “What are you wearing?”

“Blue sweater, dark jeans.”

There's a pause. "The soft blue sweater that makes you look like a sexy librarian, or the electric blue one that makes you look like a lost boy band member?”

I glance down at myself. “Uh, the soft blue one?"

“Thank God,” Honey sighs dramatically. “There's hope for you yet, big brother.”

“Your faith in me is overwhelming,” I deadpan.

“Someone's gotta look out for you,” she quips back. “Now, remember—smile, make eye contact, and for the love of all that is holy, do not start talking about your whiskey collection.”

“That was one time!”

“One time too many," she retorts. “Oh, and Jack?”

“Yeah?”

Her voice softens a bit. “Have fun, okay? You deserve it.”

I feel a smile tugging at my lips. “Thanks, Honey.”

“Anytime. Now go get 'em, tiger!”

I hang up, shaking my head but still smiling. Say what you will about Honey, but she always knows how to lift my spirits. Even if it's at my expense.

I think about the kids at the youth center, especially Tommy. The angry, hurting boy who reminded me so much of myself at that age. I remember the day he finally opened up, tears in his eyes as he talked about his dad leaving.

“It gets better, kid,” I’d told him, meaning every word. “It hurts like hell now, but you'll get through this. And you'll be stronger for it.”

It's time I took my own advice.

I give my apartment a final once-over before leaving. The open-plan space is a testament to my bachelor lifestyle—sleek and modern, with touches of industrial chic. Exposed brick walls contrast with the polished concrete floors, while floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the city skyline. My prized whiskey collection gleams from the custom-built shelving unit, a reminder of Honey's earlier teasing.

As I lock up and head down the hallway, my footsteps echo in the quiet of the upscale building. The elevator doors slide open silently, and I step in, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored walls. I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders.

When I step out into the cool evening air, I’m greeted by the bustling energy of the city. The streets are alive with the Friday night crowd—couples walking hand in hand in the snow, groups of friends laughing as they head to bars and restaurants. I make my way to my car, parked in its designated spot. As I slide into the driver's seat, I can't help but feel a mix of anticipation and nervousness about the evening ahead.

But I can't help but wonder. What if, by some miracle, I saw her again? What would I say? What would I do?

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