Page 93 of Worth the Shot

Except the second I see her again, the look on her face confirms every thought in my head. He made a play for her, just like I knew he would. It’s written all over her face. The mix of uncertainty or fear, maybe even the dread of facing me after that, might as well be drawn in black marker across her forehead. God, that guy really has some fucking nerve, doesn’t he? She looks around the room frantically, and the minute she spots me she swallows hard and makes a beeline toward me. Something in my chest tightens at the sight of her like that. I can already tell she’s upset, so I don’t wait for her to ask.

“Let’s get you home,” I say, taking her hand. I don’t say anything as I watch her search the room for him, like part of her is still back there. I try to ignore the way that sinks into the pit of my stomach like a rock and instead, I just guide her to the door and I call us an Uber.

The ride home is quiet, but she doesn’t let go of my hand. She stares out the window like she’s somewhere else entirely, while I trace small circles on the back of her hand with my thumb. Every once in a while I squeeze it like a silent reassurance, except I’m not sure there’s anything reassuring about it at all. She disappeared with Matt and came back more uncertain than before, and I don’t know what that means for me. For us. I don’t know if I ever really stood a chance once he decided he wanted her again. All I know is that I will keep being whatever she needs, whenever she needs it, even if it’s killing me, until she decides where we stand.

We arrive at her apartment, and the second her seatbelt clicks open she’s out the door before I can even move.

“Delaney, wait,” I call after her.

She stops, but it takes her a second to turn around, like it physically costs her something. When she does, her hands are shaking. Really shaking. I grab them both, trying to steady them, but her chest is rising and falling too fast, like she can’t quite catch her breath.

“What can I do?”

“You’ve already done enough, Brennan,” she chokes out, her voice too loud, too fragile, like it might break completely if she pushes it any further. “You are doing everything right. This shouldn’t even be a question, so why is it?”

The last part hits harder, louder, like she wants me to fix something that isn’t mine to fix.

I cup her face in my hands, my chest aching so hard it almost feels physical. My stomach turns at the thought of her choosing him, of watching her walk away from me for real this time, and for a second it feels like everything I ate tonight is going to come right back up. I swallow it down. All of it. Every word, every reaction, every selfish instinct to ask her to choose me. Instead, I pick her up and carry her up the front steps of her building.

She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face against me, repeating, “I’m sorry, Brennan. I’m so sorry,” over and over again, and every time she says it something in me cracks a little more. My mouth goes dry. My head starts to spin. I don’t even know what she’s apologizing for, and somehow that makes it worse.

And then she says it.

“I think…I think I just need a little space.”

That word. Space. I hate that word. But I nod, because I had a feeling it was coming.

“I’m sorry, Brennan,” she says again, “I just need time to process it all. To think.”

I ride the elevator with her as she watches me, trying to mask every ounce of hurt and fear and worry etched across my face. I open her apartment door with my key, wipe the last tear from her cheek, and help her unzip the beautiful dress that was supposed to end up in a tangled mess on the floor for a completely different reason than this. I grab my sweatshirt off of her bed, and start to slide it over her head, but she stops me. I follow her to her closet, watching as she frantically searches through drawers until she finds what she’s looking for. When she does, I brush the hair from her face and press my lips to her temple.

And then I step back.

I shove my hands in my pockets, and I give her what she said she needed. I leave her there, in the space she asked for, letting her decide where her heart belongs.

I hop back in the Uber and make it all the way home before her contact picture floods my phone screen. I hit the green button before it even has a chance to audibly ring.

“Can you come back?”

The second the words leave her lips I’m hauling ass, stumbling to get my keys out of my suit jacket pocket. I’m in my truck, foot on the gas before I even have time to think. I make an illegal U-turn at the busiest intersection in town to save time. I tell her I’ll be there in eight minutes, but somehow I make it in five. Because when Delaney Collins needs you, you travel through worlds to show up for her, as fast as you can.

I do a short, double-knock before cracking the door open. When I poke my head in, about to ask if it’s OK to come in, I see her.

She’s sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, looking absolutely destroyed. She’s got on sweatpants and a T-shirt I only recognize because it’s the one she dug out of her dresser, but it definitely isn’t hers. It’s four sizes too big, the collar stretched out like it’s been worn a thousand times, the cotton thin and broken in, with two small holes near the hem that look like they’ve been there for years. It takes everything in me not to pull her into my arms, wrap her up so tight she forgets every single thing that’s ever broken her beautiful heart, and promise her she’ll never have to face it alone again. But instead, I slowly shut the door behind me and take the seat next to her on the floor, far enough to let her have her space, but close enough so she knows I’m here. I’m always here, and I’m not going anywhere. Not unless she asks.

“Hey,” I whisper, just loud enough to get her attention. She looks over at me, her green eyes shimmering and glossy.

“I miss him so much,” she says, voice even, staring straight down at the picture from her bedside table that’s now laying in front of her on the floor. She buries herself further into the shirt she’s already drowning in, and I realize she’s talking about her dad. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you back here. I know I shouldn’t have, but I just⁠—”

“Laney,” I say, covering her hand with mine, fingers lacing through hers. “You can always call me. Before everything else, we’re friends first, right?”

She nods, on the edge of tears, and my heart splits clean in half.

“I wish I could talk to him. Just once more, even if it was about something stupid like the weather.” She lets out a small, hollow laugh. “I think…more than anything, I just want to finally say everything I’ve been holding in. And then he’d hug me and tell me it’s all going to be okay.” Her voice falters. “It’s not fair.” The last words barely make it out, breaking apart as they leave her lips.

“I know,” I say quietly, squeezing her hand. “I wish I had something better to give you, something that could actually make it hurt less, but I don’t.” I swallow hard. “I’m so sorry he isn’t here. But I know he would be so proud of the woman you’ve become.”

“I’m not sure he’d be so proud of this,” she says, gesturing weakly to the beautiful mess she is right now.