"It's not enough." I grip the banister. "But I can't go to her yet. Not when the annulment isn't final, not when I can't prove that Bianca's gone and never meant anything. She told me to leave. I need to give her space while I handle my shit."
"How much space?"
"However much she needs."
Stellan studies me for a long moment. "Fine. But don't wait too long. She's not going to magically decide to forgive you because you're pining dramatically in your old house."
"I'm aware."
He shakes his head, grabs his jacket from where he'd tossed it on the couch. "Call me if you need anything. Or if you decide to burn down the other house after all. I'm flexible."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone.
I stand in the entryway of my old house—my real house—and feel something settle in my chest. Something that's been out of place since I lost her, slightly misaligned, making every breath hurt.
This is where I was supposed to be. Not in that massive empty mausoleum with its unused rooms and pristine furniture. Here. In the space where I learned what it meant to love someone, to take care of them, to build a life that mattered.
I climb the stairs slowly, each step familiar in a way that makes my throat tight. The bedroom door is open, boxes stacked inside. But I don't go there yet.
Instead, I walk to the guest bathroom. Open the shower. And there it is—her shampoo bottle, half-empty, the label faded from steam and time.
I pick it up. Twist the cap open. The scent hits me like a punch—vanilla and something floral, distinctly her. My knees nearly give out.
Eight years. Eight years I've kept this place locked up like a shrine, unable to let go but also unable to face what I'd lost. Eight years of pretending I could move on while keeping every reminder of her exactly where she left it.
I close the bottle carefully. Put it back in the shower. Move to the bedroom.
Her hair tie is still on the nightstand. Dark brown, slightly stretched out from use. I remember watching her pull it from her wrist, gathering her braids into a ponytail before bed. Remember the way she'd leave it there in the morning, forget it until the next night when she'd need it again.
I pick it up. Slip it into my pocket.
Then I start unpacking my clothes, hanging them in the closet where my suits used to live. Arranging my things in drawers that still hold some of hers—t-shirts she slept in, sweatpants she'd steal from me, little pieces of the life we shared.
It takes an hour to put everything away. When I'm done, I stand in the middle of the bedroom and look around.
This is my space again. My home. The place where I was most myself because I was myself with her.
Now I just need her in it.
I pull out my phone, stare at Zola's contact for a long moment. My thumb hovers over her name.
But Stellan's right—I can't rush this. Can't show up at her door begging for forgiveness when I can't yet prove that I'm actually free. She deserves better than that. Deserves me to do this right.
So I set the phone down. Make myself wait.
And try to believe that when the time comes, she'll give me the chance to explain everything.
19
ZOLA
I'm locking the front door when I see him.
My hands freeze on the deadbolt, keys dangling uselessly as Declan crosses the street toward the bookstore. It's been five days since I told him to get out. Five days of silence except for one text that I deleted without responding.
Five days of Maeve crying for him. Five days of me crying in the shower where no one can hear. Five days of Naomi bringing food I can't eat while Jordan entertains Maeve because I'm too hollowed out to function properly.
And now he's here.
