I kept my mouth shut.

And Andrew did too.

Now here we are, five years later, in a wine bar where he’s meeting my best friend for a date. Their first date. And he’s looking at me like I might be the worst human on the planet. But then, he also looks at me like he misses me. And a little like he hates me, then as if he doesn’t know me at all. It’s all in there, in that space behind his eyes. They’re swirling—his emotions.

My heart has never hurt like this. I’ve thought I saw him so many times. I never thought it was real.

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest, my lungs are burning, and my mouth is trying to remember how to gasp for air, all of me too stunned to actually just breathe. By the time my lungs function again, I suck in air so fast it chokes me, and I start to cough. I realize my hand is still on his chest when he looks down at it, his brows raised. I pull it away quickly, balling it into a fist, because for those few seconds I had my palm on him, I swear I felt his heartbeat. It’s like I want to catch it and put it away for later.

“Emma, this is your big hero,” my friend says behind me. “Drew, this is Emma.”

The irony that she calls him that strikes fast, and I laugh once, but quickly cover my mouth because a part of me also feels like crying. I’m unable to close my mouth under my palm. That anxiety that plagued me for months after our accident comes roaring back into my being. It never truly left. The scar—the memory of that night, of him being driven away from me, the feeling in my gut at what he was doing…for me—it creeps in at night, invades my dreams, and surprises me in quiet moments. That sharp stab—it’s always really there.

What can I possibly say to him? That question etches itself into my mind all hours of the night, while I lie in bed and look out my window wishing he’d just show up, stand outside and throw a rock up to wake me. If he did, what would I say?

What can I say now?

Thank you? Thank you for taking the fall for me, for my carelessness? You may have saved my life. But then…why were you high? And…how could you? You drove like that; you could have killed me. Did I ever really know you at all?

Did I?

“It’s nice to meet you, Emma. I’m glad I was able to get your license back to you. I bet that had you worried,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake, his eyes directing me toward it, to shake it. It’s the same smile from our youth, but…then it’s not.

“Yeah, uh…nice to meet you too,” I stammer, my voice awkward and meek. I take his lead, playing this as if we’re strangers, but I know he recognizes me. I feel my friend’s hand on my shoulder, and I jump, turning to her just in time to see her holding the tin of cookies. Oh god, she’s giving him the fucking cookies!

“She was so grateful, she baked you cookies,” Lindsey laughs. I smile at her through gritted teeth, my brow pulled forward and my mouth aching from forcing a smile. She shakes her head at me, unsure why I look so desperate. “We…uh…well, sort of ate a few while I was waiting.”

Andrew takes the tin in his hand, and I’m glued to his face again, waiting for his reaction. This whole scene is a morbid type of irony, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to taste an oatmeal cookie again without associating it with everything I’m experiencing right now.

Here he sacrificed so much, and I’m giving him cookies.

He holds the tip of his tongue between his teeth as his mouth slides into that familiar smile, the one I was so smitten with as a teenager. It dimples his cheeks exactly as it always did, but those cheeks are now covered in stubble, and maybe a small scar on the right side. I bet there’s a story that goes along with it. I bet there are a lot of scars and stories we both have to share.

“I love cookies,” he says finally, his lips closing into a tight smile. His amber eyes burn through me, into me, and for that brief second, it’s like I can see his him. “I bet I’ll really love your cookies, Emma,” he smirks, his eyes haze, and I notice a difference in his tone and demeanor. He gives me a look that is meant just for me, and he slips it in right when Lindsey isn’t watching.

Andrew Harper has no intention of sharing secrets with me ever again.

I swallow hard enough that I fear the couple sitting at the next table can hear it. I’m showing my nerves, and it makes Andrew chuckle a little. He sets the cookie tin down on the table, then steps closer to Lindsey, tucking her hair behind one ear and kissing her lightly on the cheek.

I hate it.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I just saw your text,” he says, giving her all of his attention, along with the gentle smile that still shows up in my memories. He pulls his knitted hat from his head, sliding his other hand through his hair. It’s longer, but the same. He’s still wearing black gauges, but even those somehow look older—harder. “We weren’t supposed to practice today, but this weekend is gonna be tough, so we worked out this afternoon. Set me behind a little, but I thought I’d still be on time.”