What If We Tried Again: Chapter One - The Seating Chart from Hell

Returning to the city was supposed to be about a fresh start, not a confrontation. But when Jude finds his name card placed inches away from the man who broke his heart eighteen months ago, "miserable" becomes an understatement.

Chapter One

The Seating Chart from Hell

Jude

The air in the ballroom is a cloying mix of expensive lilies and even more expensive perfume. It’s the kind of atmosphere that’s supposed to feel romantic, but to me, it just feels like a trap. I tug at my tie, wondering for the hundredth time if it’s too tight or if the constriction in my throat is purely psychological.

"You okay, Jude?" Chloe asks, passing by with a glass of champagne in each hand. She gives me a sympathetic wince. "Sorry about Mark. Food poisoning is a bitch."

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "The solo life suits me. More room for cake."

"That's the spirit," she chirps, though her eyes linger on me a second too long before she disappears into the crowd of tulle and black ties.

I make my way toward the seating chart, my heart doing a nervous, erratic dance against my ribs. I just need to find Table Nine, eat my salmon, toast the happy couple, and vanish before the real partying starts.

I find the gold-trimmed card for Table Nine. My name is there, written in elegant calligraphy. And right next to it, sharing the same corner of the table...

Hayes.

The name hits me like a physical blow to the stomach. My vision blurs for a split second. Eighteen months. It’s been eighteen months since I’ve had to breathe the same air as Hayes, and now I’m expected to sit close enough to him to feel the heat of his skin.

I walk toward the table, my legs feeling like lead. The seat is empty, but his name card is mocking me, propped up against a crystal water glass. I sink into my chair, my hands trembling just enough that I have to hide them in my lap.

The wedding was always going to be a risk. We have too many mutual friends, too much shared history to avoid each other forever. But Table Nine? This is a targeted assassination by the seating coordinator.

I’m staring at the empty chair next to me, tracing the letters of his name with my eyes, when the scent hits me. Sandalwood and citrus.

Him.

"Is this seat taken, or did I get lucky?"

The voice is a low, familiar rumble that vibrates right through my chair and into my spine. I look up, and there he is. Hayes. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that makes his eyes look like stormy seas, his dark hair pushed back, just a few stray strands hitting his forehead. He looks infuriatingly handsome.

"Hayes," I say, my voice sounding more breathless than I mean for it to come out.

"Jude." He doesn't sit, not yet. He just stands there, his hand resting on the back of the chair, his knuckles brushed against the fabric just inches from my shoulder. "I heard you were bringing a plus one. Mark, was it?"

"He couldn't make it," I say, trying to sound indifferent. "Last-minute thing."

"Shame," Hayes says, but the corner of his mouth twitches in a way that suggests he doesn't think it’s a shame at all. He finally sits, the movement fluid and confident. He’s so close I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"You look... good, Jude. Really good."

"Don't," I snap, the words come out sharper than they should.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression softening into something that looks dangerously like regret. "Don't what?"

"Don't do the polite ex thing. We aren't those people, Hayes. We never were."

"Fair enough," he says softly. He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a private whisper that shuts out the noise of the three hundred other people in the room. "Then how about we just be two people who are miserable at Table Nine together?"

I look at him, really look at him, and for a second, the eighteen months of silence vanish. The need to touch him is so sudden, so violent, that I have to grip the edge of the table to stop myself from reaching out.

"I can do miserable," I whisper back.

"Good," Hayes says, his eyes dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before he looks away. "Because I think it’s going to be a very long night."

I settle back into my chair, the velvet fabric suddenly feeling like it’s vibrating with the proximity of him. Around us, the wedding reception is a blur of clinking silver and forced laughter, but Table Nine feels like it’s been encased in a soundproof bubble.

"So," Hayes says, his voice cutting through my internal spiral. He’s leaning back, one arm draped over the back of his chair—the same casual, arrogant posture that used to make me want to kiss him and shove him off a cliff simultaneously. "How’s the architect business? Still designing houses for people with more money than taste?"

I take a long, slow sip of my water, trying to find my center. "It’s good, Hayes. I’m a partner now. And most of my clients actually have excellent taste."

"Partner," he repeats, and there’s a flicker of something—pride? Regret?—in his dark eyes. "I always knew you’d get there. You were always the one with the plan."

"And you?" I ask, turning the tables before the nostalgia can choke me. "Still jumping from city to city for the next big story?"

Hayes is a photojournalist, or at least he was when we were together. He was always chasing the light, always looking for a frame that told a story he couldn't put into words. It was the reason he left—a six-month contract in Berlin that turned into a year, then eighteen months, then a "we should talk" phone call that ended everything.

"I’m back for a bit," he says, and his voice drops a half-octave. "Based in the city again. For now."

My heart stutters. Back. He’s back in my city, walking the same streets, maybe even frequenting the same coffee shop, The Brew House, on 4th Street where we had our first fight. The thought is infuriating.

"Good for you," I say, my tone clipped. I reach for my wine glass, but my sleeve catches on the edge of the floral centerpiece. As I move to untangle it, Hayes’s hand shoots out, his fingers brushing against my wrist as he steadies the vase.

The contact is like a lightning strike. I freeze. His skin is warm, his touch firm, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. I can see the pulse jumping in his neck. He doesn't pull away immediately; his thumb grazes the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, a slow, deliberate movement that makes my breath hitch.

"Jude," he whispers, his eyes searching mine.

"Don't," I breathe, finally jerking my arm back. I can still feel the ghost of his touch, a searing brand on my skin. "We’re here for Leo and Chloe. That’s it."

"Right," he says, pulling his hand back and clenching it into a fist on the table. "Leo and Chloe."

The first course arrives—some sort of delicate tartlet that looks like it belongs in a museum. I pick at it, my appetite nonexistent. On Hayes’s other side, a bridesmaid in a champagne-colored dress leans in, her smile wide and predatory.

"You’re Hayes, right? Leo’s friend from college?" she asks, her voice dripping with practiced charm.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Hayes shifts his focus. He puts on the mask—the charming, effortless Hayes that everyone falls in love with. He laughs at her joke, leans in to hear her over the music, and for a moment, I am completely erased.

The jealousy is a sharp, jagged thing in my chest. It shouldn't be there. I don't have the right to be jealous. We broke up. He moved to Germany. He stopped calling.

But watching her hand rest on his forearm makes me want to scream. I look away, focusing intensely on my tartlet, but I can hear them. I can hear him being Hayes for someone else.

"I’m Cami," she says, her voice loud enough for me to hear. "I didn't see a ring on your finger, Hayes. Surely someone like you isn't here alone?"

"Just me," Hayes says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "My date had a last-minute... conflict."

He’s lying. I know his "lying" voice. He didn't have a date. He came here alone, just like I did.

"Well," Cami purrs, "I think there’s an open spot on the dance floor later. If you’re looking for a partner."

I can’t take it. The "What If" is screaming in my ears. What if I hadn't let him walk away? What if I’d gone with him? What if we tried again?

I stand up abruptly, my chair screeching against the parquet floor. A few people at the table look up, including Hayes. His conversation with Cami dies instantly.

"Everything okay?" he asks, his brow furrowing.

"I need some air," I say, not looking at him. I turn and walk toward the terrace doors, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

The night air is cool, a welcome relief from the suffocating heat of the ballroom. I lean against the stone railing, looking out over the manicured gardens of the estate. The music is a muffled thump behind me, a heartbeat I can’t escape.

I hear the door creak open and shut. I don't have to turn around to know who it is. The scent of sandalwood and citrus finds me first.

"You always did hate a crowd when you were overwhelmed," Hayes says, stepping up to the railing next to me. He doesn't look at me; he looks out at the dark trees.

"I'm not overwhelmed," I lie, my voice trembling.

"You’re a terrible liar, Jude. Always have been."

He turns then, his hip leaning against the stone, his eyes fixed on my face. The moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw and the deep, aching sadness in his expression.

"Why are you out here, Hayes? Cami seemed very interested in your career goals."

"Cami is a distraction," he says, taking a step closer. The space between us is shrinking, the air growing thick with the things we never said. "And I don’t want to be distracted. I’ve spent eighteen months being distracted, and it hasn't worked."

"What hasn't worked?"

"Forgetting," he whispers. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my face before he loses his nerve and drops it. "Every city I went to, every face I photographed... I was looking for you. It’s pathetic, isn't it?"

My breath hitches. This is the unsaid word. The one that’s been rotting between us since the day he left.

"You left, Hayes," I remind him, the old hurt bubbling up, hot and acrid. "You chose the job. You chose the 'What If' over the 'What Is'."

"I know," he says, and he sounds utterly defeated. "I was an idiot. I thought I had to choose. I thought if I stayed, I’d resent you for holding me back. But I didn't realize that leaving meant I’d just spend the rest of my life resenting myself."

He takes another step, and now he’s firmly in my space. I can feel the heat of him, the familiar gravity that always pulled me toward him.

"Jude," he says, his voice a low plea. "What if we stopped pretending?"

Before I can answer, the band inside starts a new song. It’s a slow, haunting melody—a piano cover of that song. Our song. The one we danced to in our tiny kitchen on our first anniversary.

The irony is almost laughable.

"They’re playing it," I whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down my cheek.

Hayes reaches out then, and this time he doesn't pull back. His thumb catches the tear, wiping it away with a tenderness that shatters the last of my defenses.

"Dance with me," he says.

"Hayes—"

"One dance. No crowds, no bridesmaids, no architects or partners. Just us. Please."

I look into his eyes, and I see it all—the eighteen months of silence, the longing, the anger, and the terrifying, beautiful possibility of again.

"Okay," I whisper. "One dance."

He leads me further into the shadows of the terrace, away from the windows. He pulls me into his arms, one hand settling firmly on my lower back, the other clasping mine. It’s like coming home after a long, brutal winter. My head fits perfectly against his shoulder, the wool of his blue suit soft against my cheek.

We move slowly, barely swaying to the music. The silence between us is no longer empty; it’s full of the ghosts of our past and the weight of our future.

"I still have the letter," Hayes murmurs into my hair.

"The one I wrote you before you left?"

"Yeah. The one where you told me to be happy, even if it wasn't with you." He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. "I tried, Jude. I really did. But I don't think I know how to be happy without you."

The honesty of it is a physical weight. I reach up, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"What are we doing, Hayes?"

"I don't know," he says, his face inches from mine. "But I know I’m tired of wondering what if."

And then, he leans in. He doesn't kiss me—not yet—but his forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the cool night air. It’s a promise and a question all at once.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: The seating chart from hell is about to become his favorite mistake.

The Trope: Second Chance / Forced Proximity

The Thought: This chapter is all about the "mask." Jude is trying so hard to be the successful, unbothered partner at his firm, but Hayes’s presence acts like a magnet, pulling all that repressed hurt to the surface. It sets up the fundamental conflict: can you ever really be "just friends" with the person who holds the blueprint to your heart?

The Question: Have you ever had to play it cool in front of someone who completely wrecked you?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix