I'm fucked either way.
I drive home in silence, no music, no podcasts, nothing but the sound of my breathing.
Jade's car is in the driveway when I pull up, meaning she's home, waiting for me.
I sit in the car for a long time, staring at the lights in our kitchen window, knowing I should go inside and tell her everything.
But I don't.
Because I'm still the coward I've always been, and I never learn my fucking lesson.
Chapter Twenty-One
JADE
The bar is dead tonight.
I wipe down the counter for the third time just so I’ve got something to do. It's almost eleven, and there's been maybe three customers since my shift started. I should appreciate the downtime, but it just feels like the universe is giving me too much space to think. Space I really don’t want.
We’ve had two weeks of therapy. I’m sleeping in the same bed as Devon now, but the invisible wall between us is huge.
It’s been the longest two weeks of my life.
I toss the cloth into the sink and lean against the bar, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. The lighting in here is shitty, thank God, but I still see it—the fat spilling over my jean’s waistband, the way my shirt pulls tight across my stomach. I look away.
This is what I do now—avoid mirrors. It’s harder to avoid the thoughts that creep in at three AM when Devon's breathing beside me and I'm staring at the ceiling wondering if he's dreaming abouther.
About Mila. With her yoga-perfect body and her bronze skin and her fucking audacity.
I pour myself a glass of water and sip it, trying to calm myself. The therapist—Dr. Carlisle—says I need to practice being present. Noticing five things I can see, four I can touch. Grounding techniques for when the madness starts.
The door opens and I straighten automatically, pasting on my customer service smile. It’s a guy in his mid-thirties, maybe. He’s got brown hair that's a little too long, like he forgot to get it cut. His eyes are dark rimmed, like he doesn’t sleep anymore.
I know that feeling.
“The kitchen's closed," I say. "But I can do drinks."
"Just coffee, if you have it."
Huh, that’s surprising. Most men who look like he does tend to ask for the whiskey. But I have coffee. It's been sitting on the warmer for two hours, but he doesn't seem like someone who'll complain about anything.
He takes a seat at the far end of the bar, his body slumping. I pour the coffee and slide it toward him.
"Thanks." He wraps both hands around the mug like he needs the warmth, even though it's July and the AC is barely keeping up.
I sigh.
"Rough night?" he asks after a minute.
I glance over. He's not looking at me—he's staring into his coffee like it might have answers.
"Something like that."
He nods slowly. "Yeah. Me too."
Something about the way he says it makes me hesitate. He’s not fishing for conversation or trying to be charming.
“Do you want to talk about it?"
