Page 93 of Only Be Mine

By the time he raised his glass, my chest ached with the weight of it all - of promises made in storms, of loyalty that had shifted hands.

“To Trevor and Cate.”

The room echoed it back.

I smiled, but it felt thin.

Then Amy stood.

Her voice shook as she lifted her glass. “This night wouldn’t exist without one man,” she said softly. “And if he were here… it wouldn’t exist at all.”

She swallowed.

“To John Rosewood. Wherever you are.”

I raised my glass, my hand trembling. “To John.”

The words caught in my throat.

The room followed.

And just like that, the past and future collided, and I realized that loving Trevor didn’t mean I’d stopped waiting.

It only meant I’d learned how to stand still while the waiting stayed with me.

Chapter 33

Cate

Present

Trevor watched from the driver’s seat until I got the door open.

Not in a sweet way. Not in a protective way. In the way you watch something you don’t quite trust not to break when you turn your back.

I gave him a small wave like that would make it normal. Like I wasn’t wearing tomorrow on my skin.

The taillights disappeared down the street, and the quiet rushed in to fill the space he left behind.

My townhouse was dark when I stepped inside - every curtain drawn, every blind shut. It wasn’t even fully dark yet, but I’d been living like sunlight was something that could find the soft parts of me if I let it. I kicked the door closed and leaned my forehead against it for a beat, letting the cool wood steady me.

“Why did I let him take my car,” I muttered, slurring the words before I even realized I was slurring.

Trevor had insisted. He always insisted. It was supposed to be our house tonight. One last night before we became “us” in a way that couldn’t be undone.

But I hadn’t wanted to go.

Not because I didn’t love him. Not because I didn’t intend to show up tomorrow. But because I needed… something. A pocket of air. A last, selfish breath where I didn’t have to perform okayness for anyone.

I stumbled into the kitchen and tossed my purse onto the counter. The silence was so complete it felt like it had weight.

I kicked off my shoes. One landed upright. The other toppled on its side like it had given up.

My phone sat heavy in my purse. I could feel it without touching it, buzzing in my imagination with the things I didn’t want to know - last-minute questions, confirmations, cheerful voices asking if I was so excited.

I didn’t want excited.

I didn’t want tomorrow.