Sweet Romance11 min read
Long Time, No See — Three Men, One Choice
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I never expected to see him again. Not in that crowded room, not with everyone watching.
"Evelynn," Gary He said softly when he pushed the private room door open. "Long time."
For a second the conversation around us stopped. "He's here," one classmate whispered behind me. "Isn't that Gary He?"
I looked at him once and pulled my eyes away. Pride is an easy shield. "Hi," I said to the group, lifting my cup. "I can't drink — antibiotics. Tea for me."
He sat beside me like the old days, calm and almost effortless. "You look the same," he said.
"You look different," I answered, because everyone looks different after six years.
"Do you remember me?" His voice dipped small and warm.
"I remember," I said. "I remember everything."
He laughed lightly. "Good. Then you won't be surprised when I say I want to work with your firm."
"I work in design," I reminded him. "What would you want from me?"
Gary smiled. "Your taste."
People around us clinked glasses. He accepted every toast like a breeze flowing through the room. He accepted compliments the same way. The old boy everyone talked about — distant, flawless, untouchable — seemed comfortable and generous tonight. He drank, and his cheeks flushed.
When the party thinned, someone nudged me. "Evelynn, can you take him home? He's a bit drunk."
I sighed. "I'm a woman. It's not proper."
"Then call a car." They all ran off like rabbits. No one wanted to babysit a drunk friend.
He leaned on me before I could phone. "Evelynn," his breath warm, "I love you."
The words landed like a joke I did not want to laugh at.
"You love me?" I asked, and the cold in my voice was real.
He blinked, the laughter gone. "Yes. I do."
"You introduced me to your best friend six years ago," I said. The memory was a knife that had been sharpened over the years. "You gave him my number like a favor. If you loved me, why would you do that?"
Gary's hands trembled. "I thought you would be happier."
"Happy with him?" I looked at the man who had been there for me after a horrible day, Pablo Barrera. "He loved me. He didn't deserve to be pawn."
Gary's face went white. He tried to explain but the words scattered.
"Don't explain," I said. "Just get in the car. I'm done."
I left with my anger strong and my heart strangely quiet. My past replayed like an old movie on the drive home. I stopped the car and pressed my forehead to the wheel. The scene in the barbecue restaurant came back — the call from Gary, the quiet white shirt across the table, the way he had placed a man in front of me and walked out.
The next morning I arrived at the office and the boss, Gordon Santoro, greeted me like he had found a rare coin. "Evelynn, meet Gary He — the investor. You'll handle design for his project."
My mouth went dry. "You're joking."
Gordon's smile was a hawk's. "No joke. He liked your previous work."
That same day, a man walked into our lobby in a suit that seemed drawn to him. "Evelynn," he said, and the name made the room tilt. "Long time."
"Pablo Barrera." My heart stuttered.
Pablo's eyes were steadier now, the shy warmth gone, replaced by a lawyer's precision. "I'm the firm's legal counsel."
Everything folded in on itself. Past and present overlapped. Gary, who had pushed me away years ago and who had once said he loved me; Pablo, who had been my boyfriend and then walked away because I had never told him if I loved him back; Beau Chen, the neighbor who had been a boy in my childhood and then became the man who declared he loved me the night he came to my apartment.
"You look different," Pablo said. "But you smile the same."
"Do you still love me?" I asked.
"Always," he said, softer than before. "I've missed you."
I had always been caught between the pull of what had been and the pull of what could be. The three men were different weights on the scale of my life. Gary's presence was a bright, painful reminder of what I'd wanted and lost. Pablo carried the quiet comfort of someone who had loved me, then given me the dignity of letting go. Beau had always been there like an ember under ash — sometimes warm, sometimes distant.
"You two know each other?" Gary asked when he saw Pablo approaching at office hours.
"We know each other," Pablo said. "I'm here for the company."
"I have a legal consultancy," Pablo added. "I want to help."
"Fine," Gary said shortly. "I didn't expect you."
We were all present in the elevator that afternoon, a strange tableau. Beau appeared downstairs with a takeout and a smile. "Long time, Evelynn," he said.
"Beau," I answered, surprised. "You're back in town?"
He grinned. "The offer came up. I took it."
That night, back at my mother's house, Beau's presence turned everything sideways. He acted like it was normal to say he loved me. "Evelynn, I love you."
"You love me?" I asked, unbelieving.
"Yes," he said, voice steady. "I've never stopped."
"I thought you were the boy who cried and ran away." I tried to keep my voice light.
"People change." Beau's eyes were sincere. "So do I."
It was the last thing I expected — a confession from someone I had considered only a friend. He meant it. I felt the ground shift a little. There was tenderness in the way he helped me with the blanket, the way he prepared tea, the small, awkward attempts to be near.
That week the three men orbited every small part of my life. Blueprints, contracts, home-cooked meals, and the same question stuck in my throat: who would I choose? Or could I choose none?
"Can you come home with me this weekend?" Pablo asked one afternoon. "My mother wants to meet you."
"Your mother?" I laughed nervously. "Are you sure?"
He laughed, then caught himself. "My mother won't kill you. She actually wants to see who I work for."
"Fine," I agreed. "One weekend."
It was a small step. Yet, that night, I closed my eyes and replayed every memory. The memory of when Pablo held my hand outside the dormitory and asked me to be his. The memory of when Gary introduced us like handing me off. The memory of Beau waiting outside my window holding a flashlight when the neighborhood lost power.
I realized I had been living on small advantages and owed myself a clear moment of truth.
"Do you remember when you rescued me in tenth grade?" I asked Pablo one evening when we were stuck in an elevator that juddered and died.
The lights cut. The cables shuddered. Panic rose.
"Stay calm," Pablo said. "I'll press the alarm."
I could hear his breath as it quickened. "I do," he said, and then he surprised me by wrapping his arms around me like shelter. "I will always be with you. Even when it's dark."
The lights came back slowly. When the doors finally opened, the hallway was full of people: coworkers, security, curious faces. "We're fine," I said quickly, and Pablo squeezed my hand.
After the elevator, everything changed. Rumors began. That night my mother insisted on meeting him in person. She liked Pablo immediately. "Bring him to dinner," she said, and I could not say no.
Days later, a board party at Gary's company became the turning point.
Gary had invited our firm to a gala. I thought I could keep my head down and work. The gala was full of sofas, cameras, and shining lights. I wore a safe dress and a neutral expression.
"You look beautiful," Gary murmured and, with one rare smile, took my arm to guide me. He was attentive, a man who had learned how to gift presence.
"Gary, you shouldn't," I said, because his gestures pulled old threads taut.
He wouldn't let go. "I've missed you," he whispered.
When a reporter asked him about his business and loyalty, he turned his charm on the crowd. He laughed and answered like a practiced actor.
Someone tapped my shoulder. "Evelynn, can I have a word?" It was a junior graphic designer from my firm. "I found something."
He handed me his phone. There, in muted light, was a message chain from years ago — Gary's messages to others that spoke differently of me. He had joked about matching me with someone else, dismissed my feelings as cute at the time, called me a "project" in a private note. The words looked like small betrayals, but they added up.
The room hummed as someone said, "Is she upset?"
I swallowed my anger. "Excuse me, Gary." I stepped forward. "Care to explain?"
He frowned. "Explain what?"
"The messages on this phone," I said, holding it up. "You told friends you would set me up. You called me a project. You treated me like a problem to fix."
His smile faltered like a stage light blown. "I thought—"
"You thought what?" My voice tightened. "That you could decide who I should be with and then return and expect to pick me up like a toy?"
Beau stepped close. "She doesn't have to explain herself," he said, steady.
A cluster of guests formed a circle. Someone took a photo. A champagne flute was forgotten on a table.
Gary's face changed through stages: surprise, anger, denial. "You don't know the whole story," he said.
"Tell me then," I demanded. "Tell everyone."
He raised his chin. "I thought introducing you to Pablo would make you happy. I thought you wanted security."
"Security?" I repeated. "Is that why you handed me away?"
Pablo, who had been quietly standing to one side, came forward. His voice was calm but iron. "He knew you liked someone else. He used me to make himself safe."
Someone gasped. "Gary, is that true?" asked a woman from the finance team.
Gary's jaw worked. He tried to recover control, to charm his way through. "I did what I thought was best. We were young."
"Best for whom?" I pressed. "For you? For your conscience?"
A reporter clicked his camera. The crowd leaned in. Social media phones lifted. The room that had been glossy and warm turned electric.
Gary's features collapsed into shame for a beat. He was quick to rebuild, though: "You don't understand the pressure I had."
"Pressure," I scoffed. "You had no right to play with a heart."
His face went from whiteness to the color of anger. "You are making scenes," he snapped.
"Making a scene?" Someone near the doorway murmured, "Have you seen the messages?"
"I never meant—" His voice crumbled into apology, then hardened into denial, then splintered into pleading. He tried each tone as if testing a lock.
"Do you feel anything?" I asked, loud enough for the room to hear. "Do you feel the people you hurt? Or is it easier to hide behind charm?"
The crowd's murmurs built into voices. "He can't keep his image and his lies," a young woman said. "What a coward."
"Who would trust a man who arranges love like a contract?" asked an older board member, eyes cold.
Gary's composure frayed. He looked from face to face. Around him, friends who had once laughed at his jokes whispered. Colleagues who had toasted him now looked like jurors.
He stumbled towards the exit. Cameras followed. "Please, this is not fair," he said. The pleading hit the wall of people who knew now and did not want to un-know.
I could have left. I could have walked out with dignity and ignored the scene. But I stood there and watched every shift in his face. He went through the cycle the public needs: denial, then anger, then bargaining, then collapse. He slumped into a chair at the wine table and covered his face.
A few people started to clap — not a celebration of triumph but a release, an expression of the collective shame he had generated. Some walked away. Some took pictures. Some whispered "good riddance" under their breath.
Beau stepped toward him, unafraid. "You hurt people for your comfort," he said quietly. "You can't charm your way out of that."
Gary looked up, eyes stinging. "You don't understand—"
"You're right," Beau said. "I don't. But those who do are the ones you're looking at now." He gestured to the room. "You engineered a life where other people's hearts didn't matter. Tonight, you feel alone because your façade fell."
The way people reacted was mixed: a few looked stunned, others scornful, some simply tired of the performance. Photo after photo spread across the room as those present documented the moment. The crowd's reaction swallowed Gary's voice. He tried to speak again, to regain some air of control, but the words sounded small. He finally stood and left quickly, without handshake or salute, without applause.
It was not vindictive. It was exposure. People who once smiled at his jokes now avoided his eyes. The charm that had once protected him was broken by the truth revealed in polite company and on small screens.
That night, he was the one who lost the comfortable image. He was the one the crowd stared at with new knowledge. He was the one who had to pass through the door labeled "accountability." The punishment was public: humiliation in front of peers, a collapse of trust, a reputation tarnished. It was not legal justice. It was social censure — the worst kind for someone who relied on his image.
When the dust settled, I felt empty, but also oddly free. The room had seen him as he had been, and I had been the one to show it. The crowd dispersed. "Are you okay?" Beau asked, taking my hand.
"I'm cold," I said, and he wrapped his coat around me.
There were consequences beyond that night. Gary's contacts softened. Invitations waned. At one board meeting the next week, a senior partner remarked softly, "Character matters." Word travels. Colleagues who had once lined up to meet him now kept a respectful distance. He called me a week later and left a message filled with regret, but it sounded small, like a man who had been deflated.
Beau was steady through it all. He never pushed. He made cups of tea, corrected my silly mistakes on blueprints, and listened when I wanted to speak about nothing.
Pablo, meanwhile, wanted practical steps. "I'll help you with the project," he said. "I'll protect your work."
"You'll make sure he doesn't meddle," I said.
"I will," Pablo promised. "And I will also tell you, honestly, how I feel. I can't pretend my life is a blank."
"I want you to know," I said later, "I remember when you held my hand and asked me to be yours. I remember how you looked like a small, shy deer. You were steady when I was a mess."
"You have to tell me if you want me," he said. "I won't choose for you."
I thought about timing, about how sometimes the right person appears in the wrong way. "I don't know," I admitted. "I know what you gave me: honesty and care. I will not forget."
We grew closer in small, honest doses. He made dinners and sent notes. He came to meetings sometimes, always professional, always careful. I promised my mother one visit; Pablo kept that promise like a man keeping a sacred thing.
Weeks passed and the three men became not only a source of temptation but also of clarity. Gary had been exposed and, while he tried to apologize, the truth had made him small. Beau had given me dizzying tenderness and childhood warmth. Pablo gave me a quiet safety that I had once rejected but now could imagine living with.
The final turning point came in a small garden behind my mother's house. Beau had come by to help with a broken window, but we sat on the stones and watched winter birds.
"Do you want to choose?" he asked softly.
"Choose you?" I joked. "How could I go from a friend to a promise overnight?"
He laughed with something like a sob. "I can't make you love me. But I can ask to be allowed to stay."
"I don't want to hurt you," I said. "You deserve someone not tired of you."
"I don't want someone not tired. I want someone who will come back to me." He took my hand and held it carefully. "Let me be the one who shows up."
I thought of his care — the night he sat on my sofa, the way he told me about his life, the brave smallness of his affection. I thought of Pablo, who had held my hand in the dark elevator and promised presence. I thought of Gary, who had once made decisions for me.
"I need time," I said finally. "I need to be honest with myself."
"Take your time," Bela — no, Beau smiled. "I'll be here."
Months moved on. I worked late into nights on designs and learned to separate craving from choice. Pablo stayed close but not intrusive. Beau visited, sometimes casually, sometimes with intensity. Gary slipped further away. He called once to say he was moving abroad on some urgent project. "I can't stay," he said. "I messed up."
"Then go," I answered. "Go be someone better."
He left, quietly, and that erased a weight from my shoulders I did not know I carried.
Finally, in spring, I made a choice. I invited Pablo to dinner with my mother. "He can meet you properly," I told Pablo. "If my mother likes you, she might stop sending me matchmakers."
Pablo smiled like sunrise. "I would be honored."
The dinner went smoothly. My mother fussed and fussed and found excuses to be pleased. Pablo sat and answered questions with patient calm. When she asked, "Do you love my daughter?" he smiled and said, "I do."
After that, things settled into a quiet rhythm. There were no fireworks, only the knowing look across a table. We built a life of small insistences: he would make coffee and I would choose his ties. He would proof my presentations and I would make sure his briefs matched our plans. We traveled, sometimes together for business, sometimes alone to test our patience. We learned to laugh at the same things.
Years later, looking back, I will remember the night that started it all — the reunion when Gary slurred a love into my ear like a dare. I will remember Pablo's gentle hands in a dark elevator. I will remember Beau's steady, surprising confession.
But I'd rather remember the day I said yes to someone who had chosen to stand by me as an equal, not as a fixable problem.
"Will you marry me?" Pablo asked one winter night, kneeling in a small snow-dusted park, humble as a man who had learned to be brave for the right reasons.
My answer was simple. "Yes."
We married quietly. At the reception, an older woman clinked her glass and said, "You look so peaceful."
And I thought of the long road — of mistakes, exposures, and choices — and how the truth of people had finally, painfully, led me to a steady place.
The End
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