Page 95 of October
His grin softened into something tender. "For the record, even if you burnt the whole street down, I'd still think you're brilliant."
He reached over once, almost hesitant, and brushed a crumb from my cheek, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. My chest tightened at the familiarity of it, that old, aching sweetness.
"Sweetheart, I need to tell you something," Thomas began, his voice low and careful, like he was still figuring out how much of the weight he wanted to lay between us. His fingers tapped once against his leg, an old nervous habit. "This morning, Laura called me. Or at least, she tried to."
The name was a slap. "What?" The word shot out of me, sharp and high. My heart lurched up into my throat before I could stop it. The air between us tightened.
He immediately lifted both hands, palms up, not in defense, but in something quieter like surrender, "I called my lawyer as soon as I realized it was her and hung up. She's on probation," he said. "Still waiting for the indictment. The fraud investigation is... bigger than we thought. Financial misconduct, wire fraud, conspiracy. My lawyer says there are federal charges coming." Thomas went on, voice low but urgent, like he needed me to hear every word. "He explained what our options were, and I asked if I could file for a restraining order. He said technically... I can't. Not yet. There hasn't been a direct threat or credible fear of harm, just an unsolicited contact. So legally, it wouldn't meet the standard for a protective order at this point."
My stomach tightened; the adrenaline made my pulse roar in my ears. My voice came out sharp, clipped. "And?" I pressed. "What does shewant?"
His mouth twisted, something like guilt and disgust flickering across his face. "She's asking for my help," he said finally. "Specifically, she wants me to testify as a character witness. To give a statement, maybe even an affidavit, about her professional conductbeforethings spiraled, to help her defense build a narrative of prior good character. She thinks it could mitigate the charges or get her a lighter sentence if it goes to sentencing."
I let out a breath that tasted bitter on my tongue.Of course she did.Even now, after everything, she was still reaching for him.
"And?" I asked again, softer this time. Colder. I needed him to say it, needed to hear it aloud, not just because I didn't trust herbut because some wounded part of me still needed proof that he'd chosen me.
"And nothing," he said simply, the words steady, almost tired. "I said no. I'm not doing anything for her. But she keeps texting, from different numbers. I keep blocking them."
My shoulders sagged, relief and anger crashing into each other until I couldn't tell which feeling burned hotter. Part of me wanted to lean across the table and hold his hand, to thank him. The other part wanted to ask,Why are we even here? Why did it get this far?
His eyes met mine, open, vulnerable. "I'm so sorry for putting us in this position," he whispered, the words rough. "I promise, I will do anything to gain your trust again. I actually thought about keeping this from you so you wouldn't have to deal with it. But I remembered... we said we'd be honest. We said transparency and communication, no matter how ugly. So... I decided to tell you."
I stared at him, pulse thudding in my ears. "Okay," I said after a moment, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. Confused. Relieved. Happy he'd told me, that he was acting how he should and at the same time, still quietly furious that this was our life now. That she had this power, even now, to turn an ordinary lunch into a battlefield.
"She's been texting from different numbers. I keep blocking them, every time. But they keep coming and I want you to see them. I don't want there to be anything you don't know."
He pulled out his phone, unlocked it with a quick swipe, and held it out to me. "Here. Read them yourself." I hesitated for a breath, a small, stubborn part of me wanting to say I didn't needto, but I took the phone anyway. My thumb hovered over the screen, then began to scroll.
Thomas, please. Just hear me out. One coffee. Five minutes.
You know me better than anyone. You know I'm not that person they say I am.
I miss talking to you. Just your voice would calm me down. Please.
My mouth tasted metallic, blood and anger and something older — fear maybe, or hurt that still hadn't fully healed.
They're making me out to be a monster. You know that's not true. Please, Thomas. Just tell them who I really am.
Fine. Ignore me. I understand. But you were the only real friend I had.
And lower down, more desperate:
I'm losing everything. You can't just watch that happen, can you?
My thumb stopped on that last one, my chest tightening until it almost hurt. It wasn't just the words; it was the mix of pleading, guilt-tripping, and that soft thread of flirtation, a hand brushing old wounds I'd tried to stitch closed. I looked up at him. Thomas's face was pale, set in lines of frustration and quiet disgust.
"I keep blocking them," he repeated, softer now. "Every number that pops up. I wanted you to see that. I'm not hiding anything, not anymore."
For a heartbeat, everything felt raw and cracked open between us: the betrayal that had once burned so hot, the guilt that still hovered behind his eyes, the stubborn, messy tenderness that refused to die.
I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. "Okay," I said, quietly. "Thank you. For showing me."
He hesitated, eyes darkening, the weight of something else settling on his shoulders.
"That's not all," he said.
My stomach dropped. "Oh my god, Thomas... what?"
