Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Greyson."
His name leaves my mouth in a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, and for a moment, the noise of the diner fades into the background, as if someone has turned the volume down on the entire room.
The air in my lungs disappears all at once. My pulse stutters. My stomach dips in a way that makes me feel unsteady, like the ground beneath my feet has shifted without warning. Ten years – three-thousand-six-hundred and fifty days of silence, distance, and carefully maintained avoidance – and suddenly he's standing right in front of me as though no time has passed at all.
I had imagined this moment more times than I can count, wondering what I would say if I ever saw him again. None of those imagined conversations prepared me for the way my chest tightens the instant our eyes meet.
"So," he says slowly, his voice calm but edged with something sharp enough to cut, "the prodigal daughter finally made her way back to South Grove."
He twists on the stool to face me fully, crossing his arms over his chest as though putting physical distance between us. The movement pulls the fabric of his T-shirt tight across his biceps, and his fingers tuck beneath his arms in a way that makes it look less like a casual stance and more like restraint.
"I heard you were here," he continues, his gaze moving over me with an unsettling thoroughness. "Didn't think you'd still be here."
"I came to see my family," I say carefully. "It's been a while."
"I know exactly how long it's been." The corner of his mouth lifts in a humorless smile. "Since your fancy Hamptons wedding last year, right? He has a house there, if I remember correctly. Very pretentious, by the way."
My head jerks back slightly at the jab, a scoff escaping before I can stop it.
"I check on your parents now and then," he adds, his tone still maddeningly even. "Help your dad with things around the house. Pick up groceries for your mom." His eyes meet mine again, unflinching. "You know, the story of things you'd probably be doing if you still lived here."
I'd planned to be civil if this moment ever came.
That intention evaporates instantly.
Who the hell does he think he is? He hasn't seen or spoken to me in ten years. He has no idea what my life looks like now, or what I've been through since the last time we stood in the same room.
But the worst part – the part that irritates me more than anything else – is the quiet, unwelcome voice in the back of my mind reminding me that he isn't entirely wrong.
"Let's not do this," I say, sliding my hands into the back pockets of my jeans as though that might steady me. "We don't know each other anymore."
"Oh, but I know you," he replies, his voice dropping slightly as his gaze fixes on mine. "You're Delaney James – I'm sorry, Andersen – the girl who left this town, and everyone in it, behind for something bigger and flashier in Manhattan."
