Falling In Love With You Again

11

Ten minutes later, he arrived at a modest, two-story apartment building tucked quietly down the street from the pediatric clinic. Waiting by the front steps was an elderly landlord holding a set of brass keys.

James signed the bottom line of the one-year lease agreement without reading a single clause, handed the man a thick stack of bills, and took the keys into his shaking palm.

Stepping into the small, furnished apartment, James walked straight to the second-floor window. He pulled back the thin lace curtain, looking directly down at the street where the clinic sat warmly lit against the twilight.

He didn't care about the Hollywood press, his career, or Flora’s anger. He wasn't leaving Lindenhurst. As long as she was here, laughing and living her new life, he would stay in the shadows—watching over the ghost who had forgotten he ever existed.

By eight o’clock the next morning, James was standing on the sidewalk outside the bakery, holding a freshly boxed pastry, a gold-ribboned box of luxury chocolates, and a bouquet of soft white peonies—her favorite flowers.

He was terrified, but he was determined. He was going to apologize properly. He would hand her the flowers, laugh off his ridiculous behavior from yesterday, pay for her ruined pastries, and just listen to her voice for a few precious minutes.

By nine o'clock, however, she still hadn't walked down the street.

His heart heavy with a strange, uneasy knot, James walked down the block toward the pediatric clinic. To his confusion, the front glass doors were locked, the lights off, and a simple CLOSED TODAY sign hung in the window.

Frowning under his cap and surgical mask, James turned toward the cell phone repair shop next door. An elderly Asian woman was outside, carefully wiping down her display window.

"Excuse me," James said, keeping his voice muffled behind his mask. "Do you happen to know why the clinic is closed today? Is... is the secretary, Elena, working from home?"

The woman stopped wiping the glass, her eyes pooling with genuine worry as she sighed heavily. "Ah, poor Elena. She was rushed to the hospital yesterday noon. Emergency room."

James felt the ground drop completely out from under his feet. The flowers trembled violently in his grip. "What?! Why? What happened to her?"

"Severe allergic reaction," the woman explained, shaking her head sadly. "It was so strange. She has been eating peanuts and tree nuts at the clinic for two years without a single problem! But yesterday morning, she ate some trendy chocolate croissants with pistachios. Her throat swelled up, her skin broke out in hives, and she could barely breathe. Dr. Paul had to give her an emergency shot and rush her straight to the ICU."

James’s eyes widened in utter, breathtaking shock. His lungs completely forgot how to draw in air.

Pistachios.

He was right.

HE KNEW HE WAS.

A wild, deafening roar echoed in his ears. The world spun around him. It wasn't a coincidence. It wasn't a cruel trick played by his grief-stricken mind. It was her. She was Cheska. She had his Cheska’s face, his Cheska’s voice, her exact silly habits, and the precise, deadly allergy to pistachios.

She was alive. Against all mathematical, logical, and human odds—his ex-wife was alive.

A wave of dizzying euphoria slammed into his chest, instantly followed by a suffocating, razor-sharp pang of fear.

"Is... is she going to be okay?" James choked out, his voice cracking behind the fabric of his mask.

"Oh, don't worry, she will be fine," the shop owner assured him, a warm, reassuring smile softening her face. "Her fiancé, Dr. Steen, didn't leave her side for a single second. That man loves her more than life itself. He was carrying her out to the car like she was made of glass."

A violent, icy lump lodged firmly in James’s throat. His chest felt crushed, as if a lead weight had been placed directly over his heart.

He stood paralyzed on the sidewalk, holding the bright bouquet meant for a woman who was currently being held, protected, and comforted by another man. A man who truly loved her. A man who had saved her when James had thrown her away.

Numbly, James stepped forward and set the flowers, the chocolates, and the bakery box gently onto the woman's outdoor display table.

"Thank you," James rasped softly. "Please... take these."

The shopkeeper blinked in surprise, looking at the lavish gifts and then up at the tall, masked stranger with bloodshot blue eyes. "Oh! My goodness... who are you? Should I tell her who left these?"

James paused, pulling his cap a little lower over his brow, swallowing down a bitter, agonizing wave of tears.

"Just tell her..." James whispered, his voice trembling with a lifetime of unspoken regret, "...an old friend was thinking of her."

The lady nodded slowly, looking at him with a sudden, gentle curiosity. Sensing the profound sorrow radiating off him, she reached into her apron pocket, pulled out a small notepad, and quickly scribbled down a line of digits.

"Here," she said kindly, tearing off the sheet and pressing it into his shaking hand. "This is Elena’s cell number. In case your old friend wants to check on her himself."

James looked down at the tiny piece of paper in his palm. He bowed his head deeply, unable to speak through the lump in his throat, and whispered a raspy "Thank you" before turning around and walking silently back into the cold morning air.