Chapter 4: Breaking Through the Noise

Sebastian answered, totally deadpan:

"Sorry."

"Then why can’t I see it?"

He coughed, voice dropping:

"I was afraid you’d retract it, so I deleted it."

Me: "..."

A sly one, for sure.

I sighed and was about to text Mason to explain when the bar door swung open.

The noise at the door caught everyone’s attention, including mine.

The bell over the door jingled—a sound straight out of a late-night diner. I looked up and there he was: Mason.

Our eyes met. He strode right over, holding up his phone:

His jaw was set, eyes blazing with a weird mix of annoyance and hope. "Lauren Evans, are you messing with me? What’s with ‘sorry’?"

I instinctively stepped back, feeling the weirdness in the air.

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure everyone could hear it. The whole bar seemed to be watching, waiting for the next move.

"I don’t care. Even if you say sorry, you still have to get back together with me, or else! I’ll cry right here in front of you!"

He marched toward me, but just as he reached out, Sebastian stepped in, blocking him.

It was like a showdown from a Netflix rom-com—two guys, both stubborn, neither willing to back down. I half-expected someone to start slow-clapping.

They were about the same height, squaring off.

The tension was so thick you could practically taste it. Someone in the back let out a low whistle.

Mason caught sight of him and smirked:

"Mr. Whitman, what a coincidence."

Sebastian shot back a cool smile:

"Not a coincidence. I’m waiting for someone."

Not surprising—they both ran in the same circles. In our town, if you had a LinkedIn that read like a Forbes profile, you knew everyone. Their rivalry was basically local legend.

The rowdy bar had gone pin-drop quiet.

You could hear the clink of glasses, the whir of the air conditioner. Even the bartender paused to watch the drama unfold.

Classmates who were about to leave set their bags down, eager for the show. All eyes were glued to me—the main character, apparently.

I stood there, stiff as a statue, overhearing whispers from behind:

"Hey, is this girl two-timing?"

"She’s wild. But she looks so sweet—how could she do something so messy? That guy in the black coat is hot. Go for it, don’t you like that type..."

"Oh, stop it..."

They weren’t loud, but when you’re anxious, you hear everything.

It was like my ears were tuned to every snide comment, every giggle. I felt totally exposed.

I’ll admit it—I’m sensitive. My palms started sweating, and I instinctively grabbed Mariah’s arm.

She squeezed back, nails digging in just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.

Mariah clocked the panic on my face and whispered: