Chapter 2: Always almost

I made my way out of the meeting like my ass was on fire. I made it to her office in record time

The receptionist was too cheerful for a Monday.

“Mr. Romano,” she said, bright-eyed, tapping something into her computer. “Natalie said you’d be stopping by. She’s just finishing a meeting. You can wait inside.”

Her office smelled like citrus and lavender—Natalie’s signature. I stepped in, closing the door behind me. The room was sleek, modern, minimal—but still very her. A mood board leaned against the far wall, filled with textures and sketches. Fabric samples hung in neat rows, all labeled with her perfect, looping handwriting.

I walked over to the wide windows, hands in my pockets, trying not to breathe too hard. The chair across from her desk looked inviting, but I couldn’t sit. Not yet.

Not when my chest still carried the weight of everything unsaid.

It wasn’t the first time I’d stood in one of her spaces, quietly wishing I belonged.

Four years ago

She was on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by my clothes. Half of them were inside-out. The other half were being judged like they’d committed crimes against fashion.

“You seriously wore this out in public?” she asked, holding up a green flannel like it was hazardous waste.

“It’s vintage,” I protested, flopping onto my bed.

“It’s tragic.” She tossed it onto the reject pile. “Romano, how are you hot and hopeless at the same time?”

“I don’t know,” I said, smiling. “Genetic mystery.”

She stood and walked over, holding two shirts to her chest. “Okay, real talk. You need pieces that say confident but chill. Playful but not like trying too hard to be cool.”

“Could you be more confusing?”

She rolled her eyes and pushed one of the shirts against me. “Wear this to Maddie’s birthday dinner.”

I stared at her. “That’s in, like, four days.”

“I’ll change my mind by then, but yes.”

God, she was close. Her perfume—something warm and clean—wrapped around me, and I felt my chest tighten. This girl. This wild, sharp, beautiful girl. She’d waltzed into my life in middle school with a glittery notebook and pink shoelaces, and somehow, she never left.

I wanted to tell her.

I didn’t.

Instead, I said, “You ever think about the future? Like where you’ll be in five years?”

She lit up, flopping down beside me. “Running my own fashion house. Big windows, bright colors. Everything sustainable. Everything bold. And you’ll be there too. Running PR or something.”

“PR?”

“Okay, maybe not PR. Just something where I can boss you around.”

I laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Promise me something,” she said suddenly, turning serious. “If I ever leave—go after this dream—I don’t want to lose this. Us.”

I didn’t hesitate. “You won’t. I promise.”

God, I meant it.

And yet, here I was.

Present Day

I sat in her chair, finally, and looked around her office. She made it. Big windows. Bold fabric choices. Her name—Natalie Marques—etched into the glass wall behind her desk. I should’ve felt proud. And I did. But I also felt like the guy who showed up late to a party and wasn’t sure if he still belonged.

The door clicked open.

She stepped in, heels clicking softly against the wood floor, hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, glasses perched on her nose. Powerhouse. Radiant. Home.

“You’re early,” she said, beaming.

“You’re successful,” I said, standing. “This whole place… it’s so you.”

Her smile softened. She stepped close and wrapped her arms around me. I held her tight, breathing her in.

“God, I missed you,” she whispered.

“That makes two of us.”

We stayed like that for a beat too long. Long enough to make it dangerous. Long enough to make me remember every almost and every never.

“I still have that green flannel, you know,” I murmured.

She pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “Burn it.”

I laughed. She smiled.

And I remembered what it felt like to be seventeen, in love, and terrified to lose her.

Maybe I still was.