Chapter 1: The Catch-Up
The coffee shop air was a warm blanket of caramel and roasted beans, a familiar Thursday afternoon hum. Eric breathed it in, settling deeper into the worn velvet of his armchair. He checked his phone. Three minutes early. A habit. He traced a chip in the porcelain of his mug, his mind ten years back—to a girl with shy smiles and braces, whose greatest rebellion was sneaking out to watch bad horror movies in his dad’s Ford.
The bell above the door chimed, a sharp, clean sound that cut through the ambient folk music.
A new scent arrived first. Not perfume, but something like cold ozone and polished silver. It cut through the warm, sweet air.
He looked up.
Time didn’t so much stop as warp. The figure in the doorway was both utterly alien and devastatingly familiar. It was Ember’s face, but artfully refined—flawless makeup highlighting eyes he remembered as softer, lips a precise, glossy curve. And then, the sheer physicality of her hit him, a wave of silent, stunning information.
Her blonde hair was longer, highlighted, falling in perfect waves. She wore a high-necked black sweater, but it was a technicality. The knit clung to every contour, stretched taut over a bust that was… impossible. It was geometry-defying. They were large, perfect orbs that altered her entire silhouette, pulling the eye with a gravitational force. The sweater ended just above the waist of tight, dark jeans that showed every line of toned legs and a rear that looked sculpted, tight. She was a pin-up, yet painfully, breathtakingly real.
She saw him. Her smile—that part was still hers, a little lopsided, genuinely warm—broke through the polished facade. “Eric?”
He stood, too fast, his knee knocking the low table. The mug rattled. “Ember. Hi.”
She closed the distance, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Before he could process a handshake, she was against him, arms around his neck. It was a full-body press. The soft, overwhelming crush of her chest against his, the heat of her, the scent of that metallic perfume at her throat. It was a hug that lasted a beat too long for polite, charged with a physical rawness that left him stiff, his hands hovering near her waist before lightly settling.
“You look amazing,” he said, the words automatic and utterly inadequate as they parted.
“So do you,” she said, her eyes flicking over him. “Taller. Or maybe I’m just… shorter.” A tiny, practiced laugh. She slid into the chair opposite, the movement fluid, conscious of her body in a way the old Ember never was. She arranged herself, crossing her legs. “God, it’s so weird being back. Good weird.”
“Yeah.” He sat, trying to find her face and keep his gaze locked there. It was like trying to stare at the sun while a planetarium show exploded in his periphery. “How long has it been?”
“A decade? Since graduation? You went to Caltech. I heard you’re some brilliant coder now. Suburbs, a quiet life.” She said it like she was recounting a fairy tale.
“Something like that. It’s… comfortable. What about you? You just said you were back in town, left your… situation.” He’d avoided the word ‘relationship’ in their texts.
Her smile tightened at the edges. She traced the rim of the mug the waitress set down. “Yeah. That. It was… a lot. Marcus was a lot.”
“Was he…” Eric searched for a safe word. “Unkind?”
A brittle laugh escaped her. “That’s one way to put it. He was very specific about what he liked. How things should be.” Her hand fluttered vaguely near her chest, then dropped as if slapped. “He had strong opinions on aesthetics. On behavior.”
“Behavior?”
Her gaze drifted to the bustling street outside. “He liked things a certain way. Orderly. Obedient. He liked me to be… happy to see him. Eager. Always.” She spoke in fragments, as if reading from a manual she’d memorized but didn’t understand. “It was easier to just be what he wanted. It kept things peaceful.”
Eric felt a cold disgust pool in his stomach. “That sounds... toxic, Ember.”
“It was,” she said, quickly, forcefully, turning her bright smile back on him. “But it’s over! I’m out. I’m here. I just… I really wanted to see someone from before. Someone normal. You were always so… steady.”
He was touched, and the disgust mingled with a protective urge. “I’m glad you called. Really.”
They fell into a catch-up rhythm—meaningless anecdotes about mutual friends, old teachers. But a current ran beneath it. Every time she leaned forward to laugh, the neck of her sweater gaped slightly, revealing a hint of stark, smooth cleavage. Every time she shifted, the tight fabric strained. He was disgusted with himself for noticing, for the low, unwanted heat it stirred. This was Ember. Shy, silly Ember who hated her nose and wrote terrible poetry.
“Remember Mr. Henderson’s biology class?” she was saying, grinning. “And the frog?”
“You refused to touch it,” Eric said, smiling back, the memory a relief. “You made me do the dissection while you took notes.”
“I was squeamish!” She playfully swatted his arm, a fleeting contact. Then her hand retreated, and she smoothed her sweater over her stomach, a quick, anxious gesture. Her expression softened, the polish fading for a second. “I’m not that squeamish girl anymore, Eric.”
“I can see that.”
“No, I mean…” She bit her glossed lip. “Marcus… he didn’t like hesitation. He liked enthusiasm. In everything.” Her eyes held his, and they were suddenly terrified, and terribly open. “He trained it out of me. The hesitation.”
The word ‘trained’ hung in the air, ugly and specific. The folk music from the speakers sounded obscenely cheery.
“You’re not with him now,” Eric said, his voice low.
“I know.” She nodded, too fast. “I know that.” She forced another laugh, looking away. “God, this is heavy for a coffee date. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to understand why I might be… a little weird.”
“You’re not weird,” he said, but it was a lie. Everything was weird. The past was a ghost between them, haunted by this stunning, broken creation she now inhabited.
She suddenly straightened her spine, a visible shift. The vulnerable light in her eyes shuttered. Her posture became deliberately poised, one hand resting in her lap, the other holding her latte with elegant fingers. She looked like a centerfold pretending to have a coffee.
“So,” she said, her voice a notch higher, brighter. “Tell me about your dating life. It must be nice. Normal.”
He shrugged, thrown by the whiplash. “Not much to tell. A few dates here and there. Nothing sticks.”
She leaned forward again, and this time it felt calculated. The eye contact was direct, unwavering. “I find that hard to believe. A handsome guy like you? Successful?” Her foot, under the table, brushed lightly against his calf. It might have been an accident.
But then she didn’t move it away.
Eric’s breath caught. The touch was electric, a jolt that traveled straight up his spine. He saw the flicker in her eyes—a flash of panic, immediately smothered by a look of deliberate, sultry invitation. It was a performance. A damn good one. And his body, traitorously, was responding to the performance, even as his mind recoiled at the panic he’d just witnessed.
“Ember…” he started, his voice tight.
“You must get lonely out there in your quiet house,” she continued, her tone dipping into a husky register that sounded practiced. Her foot applied the faintest pressure. “It’s okay to want things, Eric. It’s okay to take what you want.”
He pulled his leg back as if burned. The movement was abrupt. Her face fell for a microsecond, a marionette with its strings cut, before the bright smile snapped back into place, but it was strained now.
“I should go,” he said, the words coming out too harsh. He fumbled for his wallet, threw a twenty on the table. “I’ve got… a thing. An early stand-up.”
“Of course.” Her voice was sweet, empty. She remained seated, a perfect, still life of discomfort. “It was so good to see you.”
“Yeah. You too.” He stood, wanting to run, wanting to stay, hating himself for both impulses. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will.” She looked up at him, and for a fleeting moment, the real Ember—the scared, training-scarred woman—looked out from behind the perfect mask.
He had no answer for that. He just nodded, a tight jerk of his chin, and turned away, pushing out into the cool afternoon air. The normalcy of the street felt like an assault. He walked to his car, her metallic scent seeming to cling to his clothes.
He’d left her sitting there. A beautiful object on a velvet chair, waiting for someone to give her a command. The right one, or the wrong one. He wasn’t sure he knew the difference anymore, and that thought frightened him most of all. His phone buzzed in his pocket before he started the engine. A single text from an unsaved number that he knew, with a sinking certainty, was hers.
"It was really good to see you. I’d like to see you again. It's nice to feel normal."