Zachary’s POV
The taxi drops me at a Western-themed bar that opened two weeks ago, all polished wood and decorative spurs that have probably never touched actual leather, let alone a horse.
The irony feels safer than honesty—if I'm going to have this conversation, whatever this conversation becomes, I'd rather do it in a place that reminds Jake of home.
The gesture is strategic and sentimental in equal measure, which is exactly the kind of contradiction I've been drowning in since Violet said she was a virgin and rewrote every assumption I'd built about keeping my distance.
Jake arrives fifteen minutes later, taking in the establishment with the skepticism of someone who knows the difference between authentic and performed.
His gaze lands on brass fixtures that gleam too perfectly, on walls that have never absorbed a decade's worth of cigarette smoke and spilled bourbon.
"This is supposed to be Western?" He slides into the booth across from me, one eyebrow raised.
"Give it a chance." I gesture to the menu. "It just opened. They're trying."
"They're failing." But he picks up the menu anyway, scanning options with the attention of someone buying time. Then he sets it down and looks at me directly. "Are there other reasons you asked me here? Besides introducing me to Manhattan's interpretation of ranch culture?"
The bluntness is characteristic, and I respect it even as it corners me.
"There are." I take a drink of water I don't need. "I haven't decided if I'm ready to talk about them yet."
It’s the truth, bare and unarmored. And the admission feels like peeling off armor I didn't realize was crushing my ribs.
"It's about Violet." He says it like a fact, not a question.
The observation lands like exposure, like he's reached across the table and pulled back a curtain I thought was secure. My first instinct is deflection—layer it with professionalism and rational objections until the truth is buried under enough reasonable arguments that neither of us can find it.
"Relationships aren't for me," I start, and the words feel practiced because they are. "My career has to come first. She's nineteen. I'm thirty-five. The age difference alone makes this impossible, and even if it didn't, I don't want to hurt her."
Jake listens with the patience of someone who's been exactly where I am now—standing at the edge of something terrifying, listing reasons to walk away that all sound rational until someone points out they're just afraid of wearing logic's clothes.
"That's not your problem." He leans back, arms crossed. "Your problem isn't that you want to protect her from getting hurt."
"Then what is it?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.
"Your problem is you already have feelings for her, and you're terrified of what that means."
The truth hits like cold water.
I open my mouth to deny it, to construct another defense, but the words won't come because he's right. The careful distance I've been maintaining isn't about protecting Violet—it's about protecting myself from the chaos she represents.
"She's—" I stop, start again. "The age difference is real, Jake. The complications are real."
"I know." He signals the waitress, orders two whiskeys without asking if I want one. "But that's not what's keeping you up at night."
The whiskey arrives, and I drink it too fast, letting the burn distract me from the conversation I'm not ready to have.
"I like her more than I know how to handle," I admit finally. "She brings chaos into my meticulously controlled existence, and I find that chaos interesting in a way nothing else has been in years."
"That sounds like a good thing."
"It's terrifying." I turn the glass in my hands. "My gray days of perfect control suddenly feel suffocating when she's not in them. And that's—that's not sustainable. That's not who I am."
"Maybe it's who you could be." Jake's voice carries no judgment, just observation. "If you let yourself."
We sit with that for a moment, the weight of impossible timing and age differences and all the rational objections I've been cataloging since the moment I realized Violet was more than just Adison's young friend.
"A month," I say quietly. "That's all we have before she goes to university. It's not enough time to build anything real."
"Maybe not." Jake studies his own glass. "But it's enough time to be honest about what you want."
The conversation should make me feel better. It doesn't.
Because the truth is I want Violet in ways that don't fit into neat professional boundaries, and admitting that feels like stepping off solid ground into water I can't measure.
Then Jake shifts, and something in his posture changes—vulnerability replacing the confidence he usually wears like armor.
"I'm terrified about Saturday." The admission comes out rough. "The gender reveal party. Impending fatherhood. Not knowing how to be what my child will need."
The pivot catches me off guard, and I find myself leaning forward, offering reassurance with genuine conviction.
"You'll figure it out," I tell him. "You're already showing up. That's more than most people manage."
"Is it enough?" He looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "What if I'm not—what if I can't be what they need?"
"Then you learn." I'm surprised by the certainty in my voice. "You adapt. You become who they need you to be, even when you're terrified you're going to fail."
He nods slowly, and something between us shifts—settles into the possibility of actual friendship rather than a courtesy masked as drinks between colleagues.
"Thank you," he says after a moment. "For this. For listening."
"Anytime." I mean it.
We finish our drinks in comfortable silence, and I realize this is the first truly honest conversation we've had since we met. No performance. No careful acts. Just two men trying to navigate situations that don't come with instruction manuals.
The bar's fake Western aesthetic feels less ridiculous now, less like irony and more like the gesture it was meant to be—an acknowledgment that sometimes you need familiar ground, even if it's constructed, to have conversations that matter.
Jake pays the tab despite my protests, and we walk out into Manhattan air that tastes like possibility and fear in equal measure.
"For what it's worth," he says as we reach the street, "I think you should talk to her. Violet. Figure out what you actually want before time runs out."
"And if what I want is impossible?"
"Then at least you'll know." He claps my shoulder once. "Better than spending the rest of your life wondering what might have been if you'd been brave enough to try."
He disappears into a taxi, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with advice I'm not sure I'm capable of following and feelings I'm not sure I'm capable of surviving.
A month until Violet goes back to campus. A month to figure out if I'm brave enough to want something that terrifies me.
The countdown has already started, and I'm running out of rational objections to hide behind.