The Love We Lost

An Unexpected Proposal

The Love We Lost

Chapter 4: An Unexpected Proposal

Amara tried all night to keep Ethan out of her head. She failed — and not just a little. By seven a.m., she’d knocked back three coffees, answered a dozen emails, rearranged her hotel room twice, and spent forty minutes staring at a blank laptop screen. The real problem wasn’t just seeing Ethan again. It was feeling him. Five years apart, and Ethan Williams still made the rest of the world fade away when he looked at her.

Enough, she told herself. She shut her laptop. “No,” she whispered, all stubborn resolve. She drifted over to the window.

The world outside was waking up slow. Willow Creek’s damp streets and those shaggy jacaranda trees swayed in the breeze. A delivery truck rattled past. Someone walked a golden retriever under the pale sky. The bakery windows on Market Street glowed warm against the morning chill. It should’ve felt peaceful. Instead, Amara felt like she was standing right in the middle of a storm.

Her phone rattled on the desk, breaking the spell. Unknown number. Her stomach tightened. She stared at the screen, then finally answered. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” The call dropped. Amara stared at the phone like it might bite her. Instantly, her mind flashed back to the messages from yesterday.

You deserve to know what really happened five years ago.

Ask Maya.

Not everything Ethan told you was a lie.

All night she’d tried to convince herself it was just someone playing games — Victoria, maybe. Or nobody. Deep down, she knew the truth. She wanted to know. She wanted it bad enough that it scared her.

A knock at the door snapped her out of it. She jumped. “Who is it?” “Delivery.” A young guy stood in the hall, holding a big envelope. “Amara Dube?” “Yes.” “This was left for you downstairs.” No return address. “Who left it?” He shrugged. “No idea.” And left.

She stood there, envelope in hand. Part of her wanted to rip it open — the other part wanted to toss it in the trash. In the end, she just put it on the desk. Not now. She’d spent five years avoiding the past. No way she was letting one envelope control her whole morning. Or so she claimed.

By ten, Amara was at her mom’s house, portfolio spread across the coffee table. Her mother watched her over a cup of tea. “You look tired.” “I’m fine.” “You always say ‘I’m fine’ when you’re anything but.” “I’m working.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is when you’re an interior designer.”

Her mom gave her a look. “Is Ethan working too?” “Mom.” “What?” “You don’t have to say his name every time I walk in.” “I only said it once.” “Once was enough.” Her mother laughed, but then her face softened.

“You still love him.” Amara stared at her sketches. “I don’t know what I feel.” “That’s not what I asked.” Silence. Amara ran her finger along a line she’d drawn. “I thought I knew everything back then.” Her mother waited. “I thought I had proof.” “And now?” Amara swallowed. “Now I’m not sure.” Her mom reached over and took her hand. “Maybe it’s time you stopped being afraid of the answer.”

Before Amara could reply, her phone rang again. Local number this time. She answered. “Hello?” “Ms. Dube? This is Margaret from the Willow Creek Community Development Board. We received your portfolio.” Amara straightened. “Yes?” “We’d like to offer you the interior design contract for the Arts Center renovation.”

Amara blinked. The old arts center had been abandoned forever, a forgotten brick shell by the river. “You’re serious?” “Very. Your work’s exactly what we’re looking for.” Amara let herself smile — just a little.

“There’s one thing…” Margaret hesitated. “You’ll work alongside the lead architect.” “Of course.” “He’ll do structures. You’ll handle interiors, finishes, lighting, all of that.” “Sounds fine.” Margaret paused. “You know him.” Something in her tone set off alarm bells. “Who?” “Ethan Williams.”

Of course. The room went quiet. Amara stared at the floor, as if that might stop the past from staring back at her. Her mother mouthed, What? Amara covered the phone. “It’s Ethan.” Her mom’s eyebrows shot up.

Amara uncovered the phone. “When do you want me to start?” “Tomorrow, if you can. Nine o’clock meeting.” Amara closed her eyes. “Okay.” “Great. I’ll send the documents.”

After the call, her mom said, “You could say no.” Amara just looked at her phone. “I could.” “But you won’t.” “No.” “Why?” Amara scooped up her portfolio. “Because I need the project.” Her mother smirked. “Of course you do.” “Mom.” “I didn’t say anything.” “But you were thinking it.” “I usually am.” That got a laugh out of Amara — the tension in her chest loosening, just a little. Maybe this would be good. Maybe working with Ethan would prove she could handle it. Maybe she could finally get some answers and move on. Or maybe she was just kidding herself. Again.

Ethan got the news at eleven. He was hunched over blueprints in the Williams & Reed conference room when Daniel showed up with two coffees. “Good news,” Daniel said. Ethan didn’t look up. “If the coffee machine’s finally fixed, I’ll celebrate.” “Better.” Daniel dropped a folder on the table. “The Arts Center project’s been approved.”

Ethan’s head snapped up. For the first time all morning, he actually smiled. “That fast?” “The board loved it.” The first few pages in the folder showed the weathered old building, a place Ethan had believed could shine again — a place for kids, artists, the community.

He flipped another page. “Who’s doing the interiors?” Daniel suddenly got way too interested in his coffee. “Daniel...” “Hmm?” “Why’re you staring at your coffee like it just insulted you?” Daniel sighed. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Ethan’s smile faded. “Who?” “Amara.”

That name just hung in the air. Neither spoke. Daniel nudged the folder. “They asked for her.” Ethan closed it. “No.” “No?” “No.” “You can’t say no.” “I can recommend someone else.” “Why?” “You know why.” Daniel’s voice softened. “Ethan.” “No.” “She’s the best for this.” “I know.” “She understands what they want.” “I know.” “She’s got experience.” “I know.” “So what’s the problem?” Ethan looked out the big window. Life went on outside — cars, people, business as usual — like nothing had changed.

“The problem is she left.” Daniel stayed quiet. “She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t even give me a chance. Just disappeared.” His jaw tightened. “And now she’s back, and everyone expects us to talk about tiles like none of that ever happened.” Daniel waited. “Can you do it?” Ethan thought of her voice, the way she’d said No when he asked if she regretted leaving. He knew that wasn’t true now. He just didn’t know why. “I don’t know.” Daniel nodded. “Then maybe you need to find out.”

Ethan glanced down at her name in the folder. AMARA DUBE — INTERIOR DESIGN CONSULTANT. Five years. He’d tried to bury hope. Right now, he could feel it creeping back in, and he hated it for that.

Next morning, Amara pulled up to the Community Arts Center ten minutes early. She hadn’t stood in front of it since she was twenty-two. The building seemed smaller now — red brick walls faded, ivy climbing every which way, windows cracked, the old doors washed out by time and rain. Still, beneath all that, she spotted something: potential.

She made her way to the front door. “You’re early,” a familiar voice said behind her. Her heart tripped. Ethan. Standing there in dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, drawings under his arm. His face was older, sharper. His eyes, though, were the same. They used to be home. Now they felt like uncharted ground.

“Habit,” she replied. He almost smiled. “You were always early.” “You remember?” “I remember a lot.” Neither smiled now. Amara looked away. Ethan unlocked the door. “You’ll want to see inside.”

Dust, old wood, and rain — that’s what greeted her. Their footsteps echoed in the empty lobby. Amara looked around. “This place has potential.” “I knew you’d say that.” “You’ve been here a lot?” “For almost a year.” She glanced at him. “So that’s why they hired you.” “Probably.”

They wandered deeper in. Old theater seats were shoved against one wall. Flaking paint. Dust everywhere. Amara started snapping photos. Ethan watched her — that focused look on her face he remembered so well.

“You still do that,” he said. She paused. “Do what?” “Bite your lip when you’re thinking.” She stopped, surprised at herself. Let go of her lip. “You remember too much.” “I remember you.” His words were quiet, but they landed heavy.

There was a charged silence. Amara lowered her camera. They looked at each other. Then she pulled back. “We should focus on the project.” He nodded. “Right.”

They talked work for the next hour — walls, seating, light, palettes — but the past kept sneaking in.

“You always hated dark rooms.”

“You still want open shelving.”

“You drew ideas on napkins.”

“You carry too many pens.”

That history slipped through every crack, and neither of them knew how to seal it.

Finally, they reached the main hall. Sun lit up drifting dust motes. Amara walked out to the center. “This could be beautiful.” Ethan joined her. “It could.” She studied him. “You really believe in this place.” “I do.” “Why?”

He glanced around. “Because people need places where they can make something better than what they started with.” She smiled, barely. “That sounds like you.” “Does it?” “Yes.”

A little smile appeared, then vanished. “I guess you know me well.” Or maybe you used to.

Amara felt a tightness in her chest. Ethan’s phone buzzed. He stepped away to take the call. She watched him, feeling something terribly familiar creep in.

He came back, serious. “Board wants designs in two weeks.” “That soon?” “Construction starts next month.” “We’d better get moving, then.” He met her eyes. “Tomorrow?” She hesitated, then gave a small smile. “Tomorrow.”

On the way out, Amara glanced once more at the empty hall. She’d come home to face the past — she hadn’t expected it to become her new job. Or to feel, just a little, relieved.

Outside, Ethan held the door. Their shoulders brushed on the way past, neither pulling away fast enough. Ethan called after her as she reached her car. “Amara.” She turned. “Yeah?” He looked like he wanted to say something, then just managed: “I’m glad you’re doing this.” She met his eyes, steady. “So am I.”

But as she drove away, neither knew if the Community Arts Center would be the place they finally built something real — or where the truth they’d both avoided finally tore everything apart.

And in Amara’s empty hotel room, inside one unopened envelope, a piece of the truth still waited.