Page 49 of Verdict

But whenever I was around Cohen, control slipped through my fingers like sand. I’d tried to keep him at arm’s length, tried to keep him out, but he had a way of finding the cracks, of pressing gently until he was suddenly everywhere.

Last night, he’d opened up to me in a way I hadn’t expected. He’d told me about his past, and for the first time, I felt like I truly understood him. My heart ached for the child he’d been. For the teenager who’d been forced to grow up too fast, who’d lost more than anyone should at that age.

And for one dangerous moment—between caring for our sick daughter and his fingers stroking my hair as I drifted off with my head in his lap—I let myself imagine it.

What life could look like if we were together.

If we were a family.

But I knew better.

Men like Cohen Jordan didn’t choose women like me. I would be the person he leaned on when it was convenient. The occasional fuck. The constant presence he didn’t have to risk anything for, because I was already tied to his life through our daughter. No grand gestures. No real commitment.

Always the good time.

The confidant.

Good for right now.

Never the one.

It wasn’t a new fear. It was an old one. I’d learned early on what it felt like to be wanted—but never chosen.

Back in high school, I had friends. Lots of them. I was never alone, but I was rarely anyone’s first call. Aria went to high school in Forest Park, and outside of her, I hovered on the edge of other people’s lives, close enough to be included, never close enough to be essential. Surface-level friendships that looked full from the outside.

I was constantly surrounded by people, and yet incredibly alone.

I tried to fix myself. Tried to be the kind of girl people picked. In college, I rushed a sorority, convinced that if I could just belong to something, the rest would fall into place. I didn’t get a bid. The rejection came quickly, clean and impersonal, and it lodged itself somewhere deep. I’d thought I was forming real connections with some of the girls, but it turned out to be an act. Another confirmation of what I’d already suspected.

I wasn’t what they wanted.

Something was missing. I was lacking.

It wasn’t any better when it came to boys. In high school and college, there were always boys who liked me. They wanted me, sure. I was the fun girl. Easy to be around. We had a good time, and once they got what they wanted, they moved on. I was the girl they spent time with, the girl they slept with, before they met the one they took home for the holidays. I watched them move on with unsettling ease, as if I’d only ever been a placeholder.

I wasn’t the type of girl you got serious with.

Being the almost had changed me in ways I hadn't realized.

After enough disappointments, I'd learned how to stay ahead of the hurt. Keep things casual. Keep them physical. So I'd spent years keeping men at arm's length, convincing myself I preferred casual. That I only wanted fun. Easier to keep things physical than risk wanting more. Easier to walk away first than wait to see if someone would choose me.

The truth was, if I never expected more, I never had to face the possibility that I wouldn't be chosen. If a relationship never became anything meaningful, nobody could leave me feeling like I wasn't enough.

The only place I ever felt chosen was in my ambition.

USC wanted me.

Law school wanted me.

Austin wanted me.

I worked until my worth was measurable. Until acceptance came in the form of emails, offer letters, and promotions—things no one could quietly take back. Since high school, I poured most of myself into my education, my career, and my horses. They were my steady constants. No hesitation. Never wavering. Never leaving me wondering where I stood.

The way people always did.

After what happened last night, I would just re-establish the much-needed boundaries between Cohen and me. It was better that way—friendship and nothing more. It was safer that way. I wouldn't feel the sting, the heart-sinking rejection of not being chosen, if I didn't allow myself to be a choice.

At least I had control over that.