Alyson Cox believes in fate. So when her ex, Ethan Richardson, shows up at the diner Alyson works in after two years of elusiveness, she doubts if they are fated to be together.
However, with Alyson only being able to work for one summer before she...
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I can't possibly go back to work thinking that nothing has happened. Even though I refuse to admit that, I spend the whole day staying in my room checking my phone, hoping to see at least something from Ethan. But nothing happens.
Well, I hung up on him, and I have to keep my guard up. I can't let him dominate my mind.
Nonetheless, I'm half an hour early before my night shift begins. I decide to help Cassandra with her dishes.
"So, you're early huh." Cassandra's voice startles me that the clean, soapy plate almost slips from my fingers. "Who even is that guy?"
"Ethan?" I reply—with the most nonchalant tone I can possibly muster while wiping the plate.
Cassandra takes the plate away from me as she says, "Ethan. Your ex? Crush?"
"Ex," I reply briskly, so briskly that I realize even though I feel melancholy knowing that Ethan and I are over, I know that it's a fact. He's my ex.
I shift away as Cassandra leans in and tries to take a clean dishcloth in front of me. She starts again, mildly, "Alyson, I don't know about you guys anymore, but love doesn't mean everything. It's not a thing that can fix problems," she stops, finally snapping her gaze towards me. "It causes problems, Alyson. Life goes on."
I slowly digest her words as my eyebrows gradually knit together. "What do you mean? Like, you think meeting Ethan again doesn't mean that we are fated?"
Cassandra turns her head towards me swiftly, and I can see her stifling a sardonic smile. "Fated?" She asks, eyes full of dismay.
"What?" I grimace as I ask in a weak voice.
Letting out a soft snort, Cassandra narrows her eyes at me. "How old are you, nineteen?"
I nod robotically. She continues, "I'm divorced now. Love endures, but it doesn't ignite forever, even if it's the right person."
Once again, I'm taken aback by her words. As I am still dwelling in my own thoughts, the bell of the entrance door jingles. The first customer of the night.
I walk out of the kitchen and take the order from an old man. While I am writing on my notepad, the bell of the door rings again. I turn around, meeting the pair of dark brown eyes that only belong to Ethan. My lips start curling up involuntarily, but I pull the corners back down. Keep you guard up, Alyson.
I mumble a "thank you" to the old man and take away the menus from his table, walking back to the kitchen. My heart starts accelerating. I am not ready to meet him again. As I walk past Ethan's table, I feel a grab on my wrist. I snap my head toward him.
"Hey, let's talk," he says, looking up at me.
I struggle to pull my hand out of his grip and frown. I wave the menu and the notepad in the air, indicating that I have to work.
Ethan lets go of my hand reluctantly as I continue my way to the kitchen. After filling in the old man's order on the computer, I glance at Ethan. Where are the other waiters when I need them?
Sighing, I inch towards Ethan, tightening the grip of my notepad. As I arrive at his table again, he pulls me into the seat opposite to him.
"Ethan— what?" I gape at him.
Ethan leans in and props his arm onto the table. "There's no one here—"
"Yet," I say as I glare at him.
He stops and looks at me, letting out a smirk. "Okay, yet, but still, I want to talk to you."
"Cassandra will kill me," I blurt out.
Ethan tilts his head and looks in front of him. I turn around, noticing Cassandra standing behind the counter and shaking her head.
"Seems like I got permission." Ethan's voice brings me back to him.
I stare at Ethan, and I feel like a deflated balloon. "So, what do you want to talk about?" I ask.
Ethan breathes in and starts, "Just, how have you been? Like, these two years."
I can feel the hesitation in his voice, because he knows that it's his fault. "Well, what do you expect from me? Good? Definitely not. Bad? Not at all either."
He fidgets—an almost invisible movement, but I don't fail to notice. "I uh, want to apologize," he says.
My jaw almost unhinges. "Um." A laugh escapes from my mouth. "What?"
"Yes." Ethan's eyes darken. "I want to apologize. I'm sorry, Aly."
"For what?" I ask, flatly.
I don't like the pair of guilty eyes Ethan cast in my direction. "For everything. I've been thinking the whole night, you know, you told me that I broke your heart."
I belatedly recall the conversation I had with him last night. "I was sleep deprived."
He starts frowning. "I know you always say things you don't mean."
"So, you came back and apologized because you're sorry?" I asked, opting for the straightforward approach.
"Well," Ethan replies, "I didn't come back for you."
My heart sinks. I swiftly gather myself together by clenching my fist. Why will I think that he came back for me anyway?
Ethan clears his throat. "I mean, I don't know, actually." I can feel the emptiness in his tone. Something is not right.
My mouth falls open as I try to ask him if he is okay, but I shut it quickly. "Never mind."
Ethan clears his throat. "Aly, will you forgive me?"
I glare at his eyes deeply, I feel like drilling holes into them. Leaning at the back of my chair, I declare, at last, "That you thought I cheated on you?"
Ethan snaps his head up to me, and I know instantly that I have struck him.
I ignore his stare and continue, "You thought I was with Demien, and your dad didn't like me." I start blurting out the words, feeling the turmoil inside me silently growing.
"I'm sorry." Ethan sighs because what I said is true. "I know I shouldn't have blamed you for that, and I didn't get to say this to you two years ago—"
"And you chose to escape from the fact that you've been wrong the whole time," I say as my voice starts trembling. "I know you loved me."
"I did."
Did. It's in past tense.
I blink away my tears several times and look elsewhere. I want to know why he is back, but now is not the time for grappling the truth.
"I have to work," I deadpan and get up, walking back to the kitchen.
"Wait—" I hear his voice lingering behind me. What is the point of continuing this conversation? A spat is the last thing I want now.
I speed up and push open the kitchen door, the aroma of grilled beef fills the air. I know that he will be back again. He will be.
