Chapter 17: Echoes of What Was

Steve pulled up to Bianca’s apartment building under a sky that had finally cleared, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the parking lot. His duffel bag sat heavy in the passenger seat, a makeshift collection of clothes and toiletries he’d thrown together in the heat of the argument. The engine ticked as it cooled, mirroring the erratic rhythm of his thoughts. He gripped the steering wheel, staring at the familiar brick facade. This place had been a second home once—weekends spent here, lazy mornings tangled in her sheets. Now it felt like stepping into a memory that didn’t quite fit anymore.

Bianca buzzed him up without a word over the intercom. When she opened the door, her smile was tentative but warm, eyes searching his face like she was gauging the damage. “Hey. Come in.”

He stepped inside, the scent of her vanilla candles hitting him immediately. Familiar. Comforting? He wasn’t sure. She pulled him into a hug, arms wrapping tight around his waist. Steve hugged back, burying his face in her hair. It smelled like her shampoo—floral, sweet. But something was off. The embrace felt ... polite. Like muscle memory without the spark. He pulled back first, offering a small smile. “Thanks for letting me crash here.”

“Of course.” She took his bag, setting it by the couch. “I ordered dinner. Thai. Your favorite pad see ew, extra spicy.”

Steve nodded, following her to the kitchen. The table was set with takeout containers, steam rising from the open lids. She plated it up, handing him a fork with that knowing grin she used to wear when she thought she’d nailed something. “Dig in. You look like you need it.”

He sat, twirling noodles around his fork. The first bite hit his tongue—rich, savory, but the spice level was mild, barely a tingle. He chewed slowly, the flavor falling flat. Bianca had always gotten it wrong, no matter how many times he mentioned extra spicy. “Thanks,” he said anyway. “This is great.”

She smiled, digging into her own dish. “I remembered how much you love it.”

Steve’s mind wandered unbidden. Back to the apartment kitchen, Bret at the stove, stirring something simple like stir-fry. Bret always knew—extra chili flakes without asking, because he’d paid attention during late-night rants about bad takeout. “Yeah,” Steve murmured. “It’s ... good.”

Bianca chatted about her day, work drama, a friend who’d just gotten engaged. Steve nodded along, but his thoughts kept drifting. The apartment felt smaller than he remembered, the couch where they’d binge-watched shows now piled with her throw pillows. He missed the clutter of his own space—the way Bret’s books spilled over every surface, the faint scent of his cedar body wash lingering in the air. A pang hit him, sharp and unexpected. Confusion swirled in his chest. Why was he thinking about Bret now? Here, with Bianca, the woman he’d spent a decade loving?