Silent Strings

Chapter 8

The restaurant was stunning, though understated enough to make Ines comfortable. It had all the hallmarks of an expensive dining experience—soft lighting, polished wood tables, and live acoustic music—but Jackson had deliberately avoided anything too flashy.

He knew her well enough to realize she'd prefer cozy elegance to over-the-top extravagance.

Ines sank into her chair, glancing at the menu in awe. "This is casual to you?" she teased, raising an eyebrow.

Jackson chuckled as he unbuttoned his suit jacket. "What can I say? I like to set the bar high. You deserve it."

She rolled her eyes, but a faint blush betrayed her amusement. "You’ve always been such a smooth talker. It’s annoying how good you are at it."

"You think I’m good now? Just wait till you hear my pitch for dessert." His grin widened as he leaned back, watching her laugh softly.

Their waiter appeared, taking their orders with a polite nod. Jackson let Ines choose the wine, and he couldn’t help but notice how natural she seemed in the space like she belonged.

"So," he started, swirling his water glass. "How’s it been, working in the hospital? Any regrets?"

Ines shrugged. "It’s been good. Busy, obviously. Your hospital’s reputation precedes it."

"My hospital?" he repeated with mock offense. "It’s ours now, you know. Don’t act like you’re not part of the legacy."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You always know how to make things sound bigger than they are."

Jackson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I call it like I see it. You’re part of the team now, Ines. And honestly, it’s been... good having you."

Her smile faltered slightly, but before he could decipher it, the waiter returned with their appetizers. The distraction allowed them to segue into lighter topics—funny anecdotes from her first month at the hospital, his infamous hospital staff stories, and even a debate about which cuisine was better: Filipino or Chinese.

Their conversation drifted to safer territory—hospital gossip, mutual acquaintances, and shared memories from college. Jackson found himself utterly captivated by the sound of her laugh. It wasn’t loud or showy, but it had this soft, melodic quality that always drew him in. Every time she chuckled, he felt a pull in his chest, like he was hearing it for the first time all over again.

Her mannerisms hadn’t changed much, either. She still tucked her hair behind her ear when she got animated, her dark eyes lighting up as she recounted a particularly absurd story about a patient who’d insisted on diagnosing themselves using a viral video.

“And then,” she continued between laughs, “he actually asked me if I thought oregano oil could cure his cancer.”

Jackson nearly choked on his water, coughing through his laughter. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were,” she replied, shaking her head. “But, of course, I had to give the whole spiel about evidence-based medicine and why t****k isn’t a replacement for an oncologist.”

“Ah, the joys of modern healthcare,” he said, smirking. “Bet you handled it like a pro, though.”

“Barely,” she admitted. “The guy had me tempted to tell him to go ahead and try it just to see what happens.”

Jackson laughed, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary. “God, I missed this.”

She paused mid-sip of her water, her brows lifting slightly. “Missed what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing between them. “You, me, talking about nonsense. Laughing about it. It’s been too long.”

Her smile softened, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned her attention to the appetizers as the waiter arrived with their plates.

As soon as the food was set down, Ines raised an eyebrow at his selection. “Grilled octopus? Really? That’s a bold choice for someone who once gagged on a sea urchin in college.”

“First of all,” Jackson said, pointing his fork at her, “that sea urchin was basically slime. It doesn’t count. Second, I happen to have a refined palate now. I’m a grown man.”

“Sure, you are,” she teased, cutting into her salad. “Let me guess, you’ll order foie gras next and pretend you’ve always loved it.”

“I’ll have you know,” he said dramatically, placing a hand over his chest, “that my taste buds have matured significantly over the years.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, smirking. “Let’s see how mature they are when you try to pronounce ‘bouillabaisse’ later.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “I’ll order it just to prove you wrong.”

She laughed again, and the sound warmed him more than he cared to admit.

When her turn came, he glanced pointedly at her plate and grinned. “Caesar salad? How adventurous of you, Ines.”

“It’s a classic,” she shot back. “Besides, you can’t go wrong with the basics.”

“Oh, sure. Because nothing says daring like croutons and romaine lettuce,” he quipped.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “Not everyone needs to prove their sophistication by ordering tentacles, Jackson.”

“Touché,” he conceded, chuckling.

But Jackson couldn’t keep his curiosity at bay for long. As she set her fork down to take a sip of wine, he leaned forward slightly, his expression softening.

“Ines,” he said, his tone losing some of its usual playfulness. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

She froze, her glass halfway to her lips. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Why did you leave?”

Her hand faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly, taking a small sip before setting the glass down. “Jackson...”

“I mean it,” he pressed gently. “You didn’t say anything to me. One day we were... us, and the next, you were gone. No explanation. Nothing.”

Her gaze dropped to the table. “It wasn’t exactly planned,” she said quietly. “My grandmother fell ill. It was sudden, and I had to go back to the Philippines.” She paused, swallowing hard. “She passed away not long after I got there.”

Jackson’s chest tightened. “I’m so sorry, Ines. I had no idea.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she admitted. “There wasn’t time. And honestly... I didn’t want to talk about it. I just needed to focus on her.”

He nodded, understanding but still unsatisfied. “But why didn’t you come back? After everything settled, I mean.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I stayed in the Philippines for three years. Worked there. It... felt like the right thing to do at the time.”

“And us?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did you ever think about—”

“Jackson.” She cut him off gently but firmly, her eyes finally meeting his. “What we had... it wasn’t something you come back for.”

Her words hit him like a cold slap. “What do you mean?”

She sighed, her gaze softening but her walls firmly in place. “We had fun. A lot of fun. But that’s all it was, wasn’t it? We both knew what the deal was.”

He opened his mouth to argue but found himself at a loss. She wasn’t wrong. They’d never labeled what they had, never defined it. But hearing her distill it into something so casual felt... wrong.

“It wasn’t just fun for me,” he said finally, his voice rough.

Ines offered him a faint smile, one laced with sadness. “I’m sure it wasn’t. But it also wasn’t anything more. At least not to you.”

“That’s not fair,” he protested, leaning forward.

“Isn’t it?” she countered, arching an eyebrow. “You had your life, Jackson. Your career, your goals. I was just the convenient distraction in between.”

“You were never just a distraction,” he said fiercely, his hands balling into fists on the table. “You were—”

She held up a hand, stopping him. “Don’t, Jackson. Let’s not rewrite history. We both got what we wanted out of it, and then it ended. That’s all.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

For Jackson, her words felt like a knife to the chest. He wanted to argue, to convince her that she was wrong. But deep down, he knew she was speaking from a place of self-preservation, of keeping her heart safe.

The rest of the dinner passed in a haze of polite conversation. It was as if the moment they stepped into the restaurant, something had shifted. The easy camaraderie they had shared earlier—those moments of laughter and teasing—was gone, replaced by a quiet, almost palpable tension that hung between them. Every exchange felt measured, carefully calculated. Jackson could sense Ines’ subtle withdrawal, her usually open demeanor now guarded, her words more distant. Even the way she held her fork, her posture, her silence—it all seemed to speak of a barrier he couldn’t quite breach.

Ines, who had always been the picture of composure, no longer seemed like the woman he knew. The playful spark he’d seen in her eyes earlier had dimmed, replaced by something he couldn’t put his finger on. Was it discomfort? Disinterest? Or something deeper?

It wasn’t as though anything specific had happened, but Jackson couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. Perhaps it was the weight of all the unspoken things, the moments that hovered between them, never quite voiced but always there—like a cloud waiting to burst. And now, with the night winding down, it felt as though they were both holding their breath, waiting for something to happen that neither of them was willing to address.