Chapter 4 — Arielle
1226 Words
Arielle told herself she didn’t need lunch.
She’d eaten breakfast with her parents—real breakfast, not a protein bar in the car or coffee pretending to be a meal. Eggs, toast, her mother hovering like Arielle hadn’t fed herself in years.
She was fine.
She was also standing in the hallway pretending to check the weather on her phone while her stomach disagreed loudly.
“You going somewhere?” her mother asked from the kitchen.
Arielle glanced up. “Just out for a bit.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, not suspicious—amused. “You’ve been ‘just out for a bit’ twice since you got here.”
“I like…air,” Arielle said flatly.
Her father made a sound from the living room that might’ve been a laugh disguised as a cough.
Arielle grabbed her coat and keys before anyone could follow up with questions that came wrapped in warmth and expectation. Outside, the cold bit at her cheeks, sharp enough to feel like permission to keep moving.
The town looked different in daylight.
Less cozy. More honest.
The soft glow from the night before had faded, replaced by pale winter sun and the reality of cracked sidewalks and weathered storefronts. Arielle walked anyway, hands buried in her pockets, telling herself she was doing what she always did—moving through familiar places like she was proving she hadn’t changed.
The problem was…she had.
Her phone buzzed as she passed the café.
Work.
She checked just long enough to confirm nothing was on fire. A client message. An email she’d need to answer later. Proof that the city hadn’t paused just because she had.
She slid the phone away without responding.
Two weeks. Just a pause.
The food truck was parked near the square again, steam curling from the vent like it belonged there. A short line had formed, locals bundled up with the patient resignation of people waiting for something worth it.
Arielle slowed.
This was ridiculous.
It was lunch. That was all.
She got in line.
Up close, the chalkboard menu had changed. New items, the handwriting still slightly crooked, still underlined like the person writing it cared. Arielle pretended to consider her options even though she already knew she’d order the same thing as last night.
When it was her turn, Luke looked up—and something in his expression shifted. Not surprise exactly. Recognition. Like he’d expected her and hadn’t let himself say it.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she replied, aiming for casual and missing by a fraction.
His gaze flicked past her shoulder, toward the street. “You’re back.”
“I said I might be,” she reminded him.
Luke’s mouth curved slightly. “Fair.”
She ordered. He repeated it back without asking her name this time, and the omission landed heavier than it should have. Like a quiet acknowledgment that she’d already been accounted for.
She stepped aside while he worked. Warm air spilled from the truck, cutting through the cold. Arielle rubbed her hands together slowly.
Mia was there again—this time tucked just inside the open service window, bundled in her coat, legs dangling from a stool where the heat pooled around her. A well-loved stuffed animal rested in her lap. She stared at Arielle with open curiosity.
Arielle smiled.
Mia blinked, processing, then blinked again like smiling back required effort.
Luke glanced over his shoulder, checking on her out of habit.
Satisfied, he turned back.
Arielle caught the look anyway—the automatic attentiveness, the ease of it. It softened something in her chest she didn’t want to name.
Luke turned toward her and caught her watching. His eyes narrowed slightly, unreadable.
Arielle smiled before she could stop herself.
“With you,” she said. “Not at you.”
That earned her a quiet laugh—low and surprised, like it didn’t get much use.
“You from here?” he asked as he reached for a container.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t sound like it.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Luke shrugged. “Means you sound like you’ve got somewhere else to be.”
The words landed closer than Arielle liked. She lifted her chin. “I do.”
“Mm,” Luke said—not challenging her, not impressed either. Just accepting it like a fact he’d already filed away.
She watched his hands for a moment—steady, controlled, unhurried even with people waiting. It wasn’t laziness. It was confidence.
“Do you do this every day?” she asked.
“Most days.”
“And Mia?” Arielle nodded toward the window.
Luke’s gaze softened without permission. “Most days.”
Arielle nodded like she understood.
She didn’t. Not really.
He handed her the food, warmth seeping through the container into her palms. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” Arielle said.
She meant it.
She sat on the same bench as the night before, ate slowly, let herself watch the town instead of her phone. Teenagers laughed too loudly near the fountain. An older couple debated Christmas lights. Someone walked a dog in a sweater that looked hand-knit and deeply regretted.
It should’ve been boring.
It wasn’t.
When she finished, she tossed her trash and paused.
Her feet carried her back toward the truck before her brain caught up.
Luke looked up. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Arielle said. “I just wanted to ask something.”
He waited.
“What’s the most popular thing on the menu?” she asked, like that was the real reason she’d returned.
Luke studied her for a beat. “Depends who you ask.”
“Mia,” Arielle said, nodding toward the window. “What’s the best thing?”
Mia perked up instantly. “Fries.”
Luke sighed like this argument had been lost years ago. “Fries.”
“I respect her expertise,” Arielle said.
“She takes it seriously,” Luke replied.
Mia hugged her stuffed animal and nodded once, satisfied.
Luke watched the exchange with something careful in his expression—like he was letting himself see it and already planning how to pull back.
Arielle cleared her throat. “Okay. I’ll…see you later.”
Luke held her gaze. “Yeah.”
She stepped away, then stopped. “You park here every night?”
“Most nights.”
“Good,” Arielle said.
Luke tilted his head slightly. “Good?”
She shrugged, forcing lightness. “Convenient.”
“Mm,” he said again.
Arielle walked away before she could question why that response stayed with her.
Halfway down the sidewalk, her phone buzzed. She answered this time—efficient, composed, slipping back into the version of herself that lived on deadlines and return calls.
When she hung up, she noticed her hands were cold again.
And she realized—without wanting to—that she’d been warm at the truck.
Not just from the food.
From the fact that, for a few minutes, she hadn’t been rushing anywhere.
She kept walking, repeating the same thing she’d told herself since she arrived.
Two weeks.
Long enough to pretend.
Short enough not to get pulled in.
But the lie didn’t settle the same way it had yesterday.
Because now she’d gone back on purpose.
- Writer
