Chapter 5

I said yes, exchanged a few more words, and hung up.

Turned to Jordan with a smile. "See? Besides taking away my ability to draw, ECT has another major side effect—my memory's shot."

I said it like I was commenting on the weather.

Jordan looked like he was about to cry. "Aubrey... I've seen your old designs. It's such a waste."

Drawing—I had talent for it. And I loved it. Got into one of the top design firms right out of school. Never got to shine before it all fell apart.

I could've transferred to another department. But Riley's anonymous complaint killed that too.

Jordan sniffled. "You don't want to see him again, do you? I can go pick it up for you."

"It's fine." I closed my eyes. "There's something else I need to get back from him anyway."

My old portfolio from school. Owen had begged me for it back then, said he wanted to frame it and keep it.

Now I think—what a waste. Giving it to him.

He picked the spot. The pedestrian street near our old college. The cake shop at the end of the block—we'd bought every monthly anniversary cake there. Now it'd been redone. A coffee shop.

Owen sat in the corner, back straight as a rod. I walked over, gave a polite nod, and sat down.

He'd already ordered for me. I took a sip—cold. No telling how long he'd been waiting.

He seemed nervous. His knuckle kept tapping against the table—a nervous tic I'd seen three times before.

First time—when he confessed.

Second time—when he proposed.

This time—what was he so worked up about?

The shop had changed, but the owner was still the same guy. He stole a few glances before coming over. "Well, well—it really is you two! Been ages! I remember you guys came by years ago with wedding invitations."

I smiled. "You can still get his wedding invitation from him now."

Owen's neck went red. The owner got the hint and slipped away.

I gathered up the papers I'd left on the table. Didn't want to drag this out. Got straight to the point:

"The drawings I mentioned on the phone—do you still have them?"

He let out a soft sigh and pulled out a yellowed sketchbook.

"Most of them... Riley destroyed them when she was upset. These are the only ones I managed to hide."

I opened it. No dust hit my face like I'd expected. The pages were pristine—every piece sprayed with fixative and laminated.

Good. My favorites were still here.

I stood up. "Thanks. I'm leaving."

"Wait—I have something to say!"

He shot up, clumsy, knocked the table—coffee everywhere.

He stammered. "I... I re—"

"Owen." I cut him off.

It was the name I'd called a thousand times over ten years.

"Owen, can you do my homework for me?"

"Hey, Owen, my feet hurt—carry me!"

"Are you a dog, Owen? Bite softer!"

But this time, it was a mercy cut between two adults.

"Don't say you regret it. That's so cliché. We're not right for each other."

I clutched the sketchbook and walked out.

---

When I repeated that line to Jordan, he was shooting an ad cover. Shook his head with a whistle.

"Not satisfying enough. You should've cursed out his whole bloodline and—" He stopped. Let out a breath. "Forget it. Don't get tangled up with him again. After everything, the fact that you can walk away clean—that's already impressive."

The clean walk took four years to build. Four years of sleepless nights, piled up like bricks.