Page 15 of What Broke First
She rolled her eyes, but it landed.
Over appetizers, she watched him pour the wine with one hand, smooth and practiced. His fingers were long and graceful. The way he leaned in when he asked her about her writing made her feel interesting again. And when he laughed, really laughed, it was like a low, delicious rumble that moved straight through her.
He talked about his firm, the old houses he was restoring. He spoke like he loved structure, symmetry, stories held in walls. There was something about the way he studied her face that made her feel as though he was doing the same to her, mapping out the damage and quietly considering how to rebuild.
She caught herself glancing at his mouth when he spoke, then looked away, guilt blooming where want should’ve been. It was ridiculous. She was allowed to flirt, to smile, to feel the heat of someone’s gaze on her collarbone without flinching. Still, it felt like trespassing into a future she hadn’t earned yet.
They didn’t talk about Matt. But his name hung in the air, an unspoken variable neither of them wanted to solve.
By the second glass, James’s hand brushed hers. By the third, he kissed her.
His hand found the side of her face, warm and steady, like he’d thought about this before but waited for her to be ready. The kiss was soft, but it grounded her, igniting a pulse she had forgotten she still had.
It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t messy. It was nice, which is precisely what made her cry. She pulled away, blinking fast. “I’m sorry. I just…”
“Hey,” James said gently. “It’s okay. Really.”
She shook her head, embarrassed.“I wasn’t expecting this. You. Tonight."
“That makes two of us,” he said, his voice easy, but steady. “You texted. I showed up. I didn’t need more than that.”
She wiped at her eye with the edge of her napkin. “You didn’t deserve that reaction."
”He tilted his head. “It wasn’t about me."
“No,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
A pause.
“You’re still stunning, by the way,” he added, eyes on hers. “Even when your mascara’s fighting for its life.”
She laughed, surprised by the sharpness of it.
“See?” he said. “Still in there.”
”She wiped another tear, trying not to feel like a cliche.
“You’re kind. Too kind.”
“I’m patient,” he said. “That’s different. I don’t need this to be anything it’s not. I just liked seeing you.”
“I liked seeing you, too,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just... complicated.”
She didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t about him. That it was about memory. About the ghost of a life that had broken open and spilled its pieces into every kiss, every date, every new attempt to be something else. Someone else.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, finally:
“It was when you laughed,” she said, her voice fragile around the edges. “That’s what broke me a little. Just... that moment.”
James tilted his head, confused but waiting.
She stared at the pavement near his feet, not ready for eye contact.
“Matt used to laugh like that. That same kind of full-bodied, can’t-hold-it-back kind of laugh. It made me feel like I was funny. Like I was worth listening to. And for a second tonight, I felt that again, and my brain just... snapped backward. Like it couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what was remembered.”
She looked up at him then, eyes glossy, her throat tight.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
