The meeting devolved into tactical warfare disguised as civic planning about twenty minutes in.
Some developer named Richard with a Patagonia vest and an MBA started explaining why demolishing our old high school was actually a gift to the community. Luxury condos, he said. Investment opportunities. Revitalization.
Translation: rich people housing that no one from here could afford.
Chase sat at the head of the table, jaw tight, letting Richard finish his pitch before sliding a stack of blueprints across the surface.
"Counter-proposal," Chase said, voice calm but sharp. "We preserve the existing structure. Convert it to a community arts center. Music studios, gallery space, event hall. Something people might actually use."
He unrolled the plans. They were gorgeous. Detailed renderings showing the old gym transformed into a performance venue, classrooms turned into workshop spaces, the cafeteria reimagined as an open gathering area with natural light flooding through new skylights.
I stared at the drawings and remembered sophomore year when Chase told me he wanted to be an architect. Back when we were still pretending we didn't care about each other. Back when the future felt possible instead of like a threat.
Richard laughed. Not a kind laugh. The condescending kind that men in expensive vests use when they think you're wasting their time.
"That's very creative," he said, in a tone that meant the opposite. "But we're talking about realistic development here. Not passion projects."
Amber nodded along like Richard had just solved world hunger. "Plus, I mean, who would even fund something like that?"
Miles chimed in. "Chase, man, it's cool you drew some pictures. But we need actual solutions."
I watched Chase's hand flex against the table. Watched him bite back whatever he wanted to say. Watched him sit there while everyone dismissed him like he was still the burnout kid from the wrong side of town instead of a professional with an actual degree and a portfolio.
No one was listening. No one was even looking at the plans.
Except me.
The meeting ended with Richard promising to send over financing projections that would "prove" demolition was the only option. People scattered fast, probably rushing to post vague-Instagram-stories about being civically engaged.
I waited until the coffee shop mostly cleared, then followed Chase to the parking lot.
He was leaning against a black SUV that definitely hadn't been in his budget ten years ago, scrolling his phone with that same energy he used to have—like he was physically restraining himself from setting something on fire.
We hadn't spoken directly in five years. Not since the night everything imploded and we both said things we couldn't take back.
The air between us crackled. Static electricity and unfinished sentences.
"Your design is good," I said.
He looked up, expression unreadable. "But?"
"But no one here trusts you enough to listen."
His laugh was dry. Sharp. "And whose fault is that?"
The words landed heavy. I deserved that. Fully. Completely.
"Look," I started, "I know we didn't end well—"
"That's one way to phrase it."
I took a breath. Steadied myself. "What if we worked together?"
He just stared at me.
"I'm still the golden child here," I continued. "People listen to me. You're the architect with an actual plan. Combined, we might actually save this place."
He studied me like he was looking for the trap. Like I might pull out a hidden camera and reveal this was all an elaborate prank.
"Why would you want to work with me?" he asked.
"Because some things matter more than our history." I met his eyes. "And because driving everyone insane while doing something good sounds like justice."
His mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something darker and more familiar.
"You want to fake working together?"
"I want to actually work together." I shrugged. "The faking part is just a bonus."
He considered this. Tapped his phone against his palm like he was calculating odds. Then he looked at me with that expression that used to make my stomach flip.
"Your fiancé gonna be okay with that?"
"My ex-fiancé." The words came out easier than I expected. "I ended it this morning."
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction. Or something I couldn't name because I'd spent five years trying not to think about what his expressions meant.
He pushed off the car. Stepped closer. Extended his hand like we were closing a business deal instead of reopening a wound.
"Deal," he said. "Let's save the building and wreck some expectations."
I took his hand. His palm was warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that made my chest tight.
We shook once. Professional. Distant. Like we hadn't spent an entire summer tangled in each other. Like I hadn't left him standing in the rain outside my dorm because I was too scared to let him follow me to college. Like he hadn't told me I'd regret choosing safe over real.
He was right, obviously. But I wasn't going to admit that yet.
"Ground rules," I said, not letting go of his hand.
"Already starting with rules?" But his eyes had that spark I remembered. The one that meant he was in.
"We keep this professional. No rehashing the past. No personal stuff. Just the project."
"Sounds boring."
"Sounds survivable."
He finally released my hand. "Fine. Professional. Got it."
"I'm serious, Chase."
"So am I." He opened his car door. "But for the record? Watching you tell your ex-fiancé to fuck off via breakup text would've been way more satisfying than hearing about it secondhand."
"How did you—"
"Small town, Zoey. Everyone knows everything by lunch."
He slid into the driver's seat, started the engine. Rolled down the window and looked at me with something that felt dangerously close to the way he used to.
"See you Monday," he said. "Try not to cause any more scandals before then."
"No promises."
He drove off, and I stood there in the parking lot, wondering what the hell I'd just agreed to. Probably nothing good. Definitely nothing safe.