James stood across the street from the old café where Betty’s birthday was being held, his hands jammed into the pockets of his coat, his fingers twitching around the crumpled edges of a letter he never planned on sending. It had taken him weeks to get the courage—weeks of writing and rewriting what he’d say, of talking himself out of it, then back into it again. And now, under the flickering glow of string lights and the low hum of jazz from inside, all he wanted was to run.
He hadn't seen her since late August. Since the truth came out.
Betty.
She used to wear that green coat when the wind got cold too early. He saw it now through the glass—dark olive, sturdy-looking, as always. Her wavy brown hair curled softly beneath it, the bangs he used to brush aside when they kissed now dancing around her expressive green eyes as she laughed politely at something someone said. But she wasn’t really smiling. Not the way she used to. And that hit him harder than he expected.
He took one step forward, then stopped. His heart slammed against his ribs.
What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she looks at me like a stranger? What if I ruined her laughter forever?
He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of fall—dry leaves, city smoke, the hint of rain. He hadn’t worn cologne. Didn’t want to come off like he’d dressed for seduction. This wasn’t about that. This was about guilt. About trying to make it right, even if it was too late.
The door opened and a wave of warmth and chatter spilled into the night. A couple exited, laughing. No one noticed him.
Now or never.
He walked in.
The bell above the door gave him away instantly. A few heads turned. His eyes locked on her before anything else. Her lips—deep red, still so vivid—parted slightly when she saw him.
The room quieted, just enough for his pulse to roar.
“Hi,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.
Betty blinked once. Her hand went to her necklace unconsciously—something she always did when she felt caught off guard. He used to love that about her. Still did.
“James,” she said. Her tone was unreadable.
“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he added quickly. “But… I didn’t want today to pass without saying something.”
She looked at him for a long second. Then another.
“You think a birthday is a good time to show up after you disappeared?”
He nodded, accepting the sting. “No. I think every day since I left has been the wrong time. But I kept waiting for the right one, and it never came.”
Her lips pressed together, smudging the red slightly. The floral tattoo under her ear peeked out from her hair as she tilted her head.
“You slept next to someone else, James,” she said quietly, but not without fire. “For months.”
“I know,” he said. “And I hated myself for every second of it. Not because of Augustine—but because every single night, I dreamed about you. I would turn over and forget where I was, just for a second. I kept seeing your freckles, your eyes. I thought I could run away from what I did. But it didn’t work. I never stopped loving you, even when I was doing the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
James stepped closer, just slightly.
“I didn’t come here to beg,” he said. “I know I don’t deserve you. I just needed you to know I’m sorry. Genuinely. For everything.”
She looked away, jaw tight, then back at him. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
For a moment, they just stood there. Two people with a thousand moments between them, and one unforgivable summer wedged in the middle.
She nodded slowly. “Thank you for saying it.”
He swallowed hard. “Happy birthday, Betty.”
As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him.
“James.”
He looked back.
“I don’t forgive you. Not yet.”
His chest ached. “Okay.”
“But I’m not going to ask you to leave.”
She walked past him and picked up a new plate. Quietly, she cut a second slice of cake. Without another word, she handed it to him.
No smile. Just a gesture.
Maybe not a beginning.
But not the end, either.