"I told you—"
"I know what you said." His voice is gentle but determined. "This isn't about us. It's about Reeves."
I sink onto the bed beside the box of memories.
"What about him?"
"I've been thinking. About addiction, about second chances." He pauses. "I found a treatment center up north. One of the best in the country. Ninety-day program, full therapy, the works. I can cover everything."
The offer hits me like a slap. My first instinct is to refuse.
"Caine, he'll never accept charity from you. He's too proud."
"Then don't tell him it's from me. Say it's from your insurance.. I don't care about the credit, Jenna. I just want him to get help."
I stare at Reeves’s things scattered across our bed—our former bed—and feel something crack open in my chest.
"Why would you do that?"
"Because he's Liam's father. And because you still love him."
The drive to Pine Ridge Recovery Center takes me through winding roads that seem to climb toward something hopeful. When I finally see Reeves waiting on the front porch, my breath catches. He looks... good. Better than I've seen him in years.
His face has color again, not that gray pallor of stress and sleepless nights. His hair is trimmed, his clothes clean. But it's his eyes that stop me cold—they're clear. Alert. Like someone turned the lights back on inside him.
"Hey, stranger." He stands as I approach, that crooked smile I fell for in college spreading across his face.
"You look… good." I mean it completely.
“Feels weird to agree with you.” He pats the empty chair. “Sit. Tell me you brought some chaos from home. I’m getting used to the quiet.”
I lower into the rocker. “No chaos. Just Liam's drawings and a story about a train named Speedy.”
He laughs, low and warm. “That’s our boy.”
The room hums with soft voices and clinking mugs. I can’t help going back to that night in our kitchen—his jaw locked, a coffee mug exploding against the wall, my voice shaking and relentless.
“I don’t need rehab,” he’d growled, chest heaving. “I’m not broken.”
“Our insurance covers it,” I’d lied, palms up, pretending I had a safety net.
He’d paced. He’d cursed. He’d shut down.
“It’s for Liam,” I’d whispered. “For his future. For his college fund. Please.”
Now, in the glow of this room, he rubs his palms onhis jeans. “I fought you like hell.”
“You did.”
“And you were right.” His mouth twists. “Don’t make me say that twice.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “Once is enough.”
“They put me on meds.” He taps his temple. “OCD, addiction. Turns out my brain’s been running its own crooked hustle. First time in a long time I can see past lunch.”
“A month,” I murmur. “You’re doing it.”
“I’m starting to feel… like things are possible.”
