Chapter 25 Two Chairs
Two Chairs
Claire
The suitcase lay open on the bed. Half-packed. A couple of stacks of folded clothes, a shoebox with my mug wrapped in paper, and extra toiletries tucked into a side pouch.
This is the plan. This is the next step. Still, each fold, each zipper, each item that goes into my suitcase erases something.
I folded the sweater, then unfolded it. Folded again, tighter this time. Still not right. I set it aside instead of putting it in the suitcase.
The door buzzed. Then the five signature doorknocks.
Nolan
I straightened, eyes lifting to the window. Buildings stacked tight, sunlight flashing off the glass. Two birds circled between them. My breath caught for a beat.
I wiped my palms on my jeans and headed for the door.
When I opened it, Nolan stood there with two flattened boxes tucked under one arm, trying to keep them from sliding.
“Brooke said to drop these off.” The corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
I stepped aside to let him in. “Noted. I’ll put it on your permanent record.”
“Good. My ‘helping my sibling' record needs padding.” He set the boxes down. “How is the apartment hunting going?"
“I haven’t found the right apartment yet. Just want to be ready when I do.”
As I spoke, his eyes drifted past me, scanning the space. His mouth ticked, amused. “You’re right. His kitchen is nicer than mine.”
I frowned. “What?”
He looked back at me. “That first day in my office, you said it. Don’t tell me you forgot.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. I had forgotten the words, but not the moment.
I remembered it too well. Nolan’s office, the moment Liam walked in. My eyes had gone rogue, down his chest, across those lines of muscle, before I yanked them back where they belonged. He’d seen it. I’d felt the flush give me away.
I blinked, realizing Nolan was looking at me like he’d been waiting. My brain was still busy rerunning that first day, broad shoulders, green eyes, and me getting caught staring.
“I asked you something,” he said, one brow up. “Care to join the conversation?”
“Sorry. Repeat the question?”
“Is Liam here?”
I shook my head. “He’s out. Why?”
“Good.” He crossed his arms. “Then I can ask without him hearing.”
My chest tightened. “Ask what?”
“What’s going on with him?”
“What do you mean?”
Nolan frowned. “Something’s off. He’s stiff. Doesn’t trust his instincts. The last couple days he’s been second-guessing plays he usually reads before the puck even leaves the stick.”
I forced a shrug. “And you think I’d know why?”
“You live with him.”
Not an accusation, just a fact.
I looked back at the boxes, then went to the kitchen to get some water.
“We used to… drink coffee in the mornings. Eat dinner at night.” I hesitated. “Then it just… stopped.”
“When?”
I swallowed. “Two nights ago.”
Nolan leaned against the counter, arms crossed tighter now. “That’s when I saw the shift.”
Nolan’s gaze lingered. “Two nights ago,” he repeated, almost to himself. He drummed his fingers once against his arm, thoughtful.
Then his eyes came back to me. “So, what did he say when you told him you’re moving out?”
I froze. “…I haven’t told him yet.”
Nolan’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t speak right away.
My mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out.
“That’s not like you,” he said finally.
I gathered the scraps of paper on the counter, creasing them into tighter and tighter squares until the edges dug into my fingers.
“I’ll tell him.”
“When?”
“When the timing’s right.”
His head shook slowly, his brow knitted. “You’re the most direct, logical person I know. You don’t circle around topics. You don’t wait. You just say it.”
I gripped the glass harder. “What does that mean?”
Nolan tapped a finger once on the counter. “This not telling him, it isn’t logical."
He tapped the boxes once with his knuckles. “Think it through, Claire. You’re not making sense,” he said as he headed for the door.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood there, scraps of paper still pinched in my fingers.
What does he mean I am not acting like me?
I can be logical. Direct.
Except here I was, sneaking around with half-packed bags and no plan for the words that should’ve already been said.
The buzz of my phone broke the silence. Brooke.
I’m coming up. Don’t move.
I stared at the message a second too long, then set the phone face down. Of course. Nolan couldn’t leave it alone, so now he’d sent backup. Ignoring Brooke wasn’t an option.
A knock followed a minute later. Her knock was lighter, faster. I crossed the room and opened the door.
She stepped inside without waiting, her tote thumping onto the counter. The same brisk, no-nonsense energy she used to corral Emma and Sophie filled the room. But this time there was no smile to soften it. She planted herself in the kitchen, arms crossed, chin lifted. Business.
I stayed by the door a beat too long, already bracing.
“Claire Elizabeth Bennet,” she said, full-name sharp. “Look me in the eye and tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m packing,” I said, lifting my chin a little. The words came out flatter than I wanted. “We talked about this, me moving closer to you and the girls. I want to be ready when I find the right place.”
Brooke’s eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they narrowed. She crossed her arms tighter, hip bumping the counter. "That’s not what I’m talking about.”
My stomach pinched. I grabbed the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and wiped an invisible spot on the counter. “Then what?”
Brooke didn’t blink. “That you haven’t told Liam you’re looking for apartments.”
“Why does it matter that I haven’t told Liam?”
“Why does it matter?” Her voice jumped half an octave, eyes widening. “Claire, it’s common courtesy. The man let you live in his apartment. He cooked for you. He cooked for my girls. And you’re what? Planning to slip out without saying a word? Maybe leave a note?”
Heat crawled up my neck. I stared at my half-full glass of water on the counter. “I’ll tell him,” I muttered.
“No, see, that’s the thing.” Brooke leaned in, eyes sharp now.
“The you I know would’ve already done it.
You’d have made a list of potential thank-you gifts, probably with a color-coded column for price ranges.
Instead, you’re zipping suitcases shut like you’re sneaking out in the middle of the night. ”
My lips pressed together. I hated how right she sounded. But if I told him, this would be over. Simple as that. I grabbed the glass and pressed my thumb against the condensation.
“Liam’s nice. If I say I’m leaving, he’ll just tell me I don’t have to go. I don’t want to put him in that position.”
Her eyebrows went up, and her fingers tapped once against her folded arm. Then nothing. Just her eyes holding mine until I had to glance away.
Brooke’s eyebrows stayed high. She didn’t let go.
“Claire, come on. The last time I was here, I watched that man hold you by the hips like you were his. He kissed your cheek. He told you he’d see you in the morning for coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You expect me to believe you’re just roommates? ”
I gripped the edge of the counter, pulse stuttering. “It wasn’t—”
Brooke cut me off with a sharp shake of her head. “No. Don’t even try that. I was standing right there. He was looking at you, Claire. Only you.”
Brooke didn’t ease up. Her arms stayed crossed, eyes hard on me. “And don’t even try to pretend pizza night didn’t happen.”
My pulse skipped.
“Claire, he could’ve rattled off a takeout menu and called it a day. But instead? He carried half a grocery store upstairs and made dinner for you and my girls.”
“I walked in and saw Sophie asleep on his chest, Emma knocked out on your shoulder, and the two of you sitting there like—” She broke off with a short, disbelieving laugh. “—like a family. And you know what I mouthed to you that night.”
Heat shot into my cheeks. I hadn’t forgotten.
Her voice sharpened. “I said, he’s a keeper. And I meant it. You blushed like you knew it, too.”
Brooke’s eyes didn’t waver. “Claire, listen to me. You don’t have to script the whole thing. Just talk to him. Tell him you’re staying in the city for Nolan and the girls. Tell him you’re looking for an apartment. And then tell him how you feel about him.”
My grip tightened around the glass. “Brooke—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt. Maybe he asks you to stay. Maybe he thinks you getting your own place is smart. Fine. But none of that matters if you keep acting like this, packing in secret, saying nothing. You can’t run from it. Not this time.”
A damp line of sweat crept along my collar. “You’re exaggerating. You’re seeing what you want to see.”
Brooke shook her head once, sharp. “No, I’m seeing what’s right in front of me. You’re the only one refusing to look.”
I dropped my gaze, pretending to straighten the pile of papers I had left on the counter. Anything to avoid her stare.
Her hand came down lightly on my arm. “Claire.” Her voice softened, but the steel was still underneath. “Liam is a keeper. You know that. And if you walk away without saying a word? You’ll regret it. I promise you will.”
My throat felt too tight to answer.
Brooke let out a long breath, then grabbed her phone from the counter.
She slung her tote over her shoulder, already heading for the door.
“Do what you want. But to be clear, you’re leaving the man who’s already opened his door, his kitchen, his life to you.
And if you walk now, you’ll always wonder what you walked away from. ”
The door clicked shut behind her, and I stood frozen, glass still in hand. Brooke's words replayed one by one.
My neck was damp, sweat prickling at the edge of my sweater. I tugged at the fabric, trying to get air under it. I braced one hand against the counter while the other went to my forehead. Eyes closed. One breath. Then another. Still not enough.
I needed air.
I slid open the balcony door and stepped outside. The cold caught my skin, a quick shock, and I pulled in a breath that felt like the first real one in hours.
And then I saw it.
Two chairs.
The second one angled just slightly toward the first, as if someone had been sitting here, waiting for company. My feet slowed, almost tripping over themselves. That hadn’t been there before.
“When did you get here?” I whispered. My throat tightened. “Did he…?”
My hand hovered over the backrest, brushing the smooth wood like it might answer me. Of course it wouldn’t. But I knew.
My knees bent before my brain caught up, and I sank into it. The cushion gave under me, still new, not yet worn to anyone’s shape.
Between the two chairs sat the small side table. And on it—two books. The covers caught the last scraps of daylight, titles easy to read.
Star maps. Constellations. A beginner’s guide.
The air slipped out of me.
My fingers grazed the edge of the top book, the paper cool against my skin.
A memory shoved itself forward. The day we met. I’d stepped onto this balcony and asked about the stars. I could still hear myself saying it, teasing about constellations, NASA, my nieces. I could still see the baffled way he’d admitted he didn’t even know where to find the North Star.
He’d remembered.
I blinked hard, eyes tracing the spines again. Not one book. Two.
For him and… for me.
My pulse thudded low, uneven. I pressed my palm flat on the cover, steadying it, steadying myself.
The skyline stretched wide in front of me, glass catching the last of the sun, but all I could see was him.
A man who cooked when he didn’t have to.
Who bought chairs so I’d sit beside him.
Who tracked down books because of one throwaway comment I hadn’t even thought he’d heard.
This went past courtesy. Past kindness.
And maybe Brooke was right. Maybe I was the only one refusing to look.
I pulled one book closer, thumb brushing over the title.
And smiled.
I pushed out of the chair, the night air clinging to my skin, and slid the door open just enough to step inside. A notepad sat on the counter. I tore off a sheet, grabbed a pen, and carried them back out to the balcony and sat in the chair Liam bought for me.
I twirled the pen once between my fingers, then tapped the end against my lips. The page stayed blank, waiting.
“I got it.”
This constellation is my favorite to find. I’m available for star-gazing tours.
I wrote the words small, careful, then stared at them until the ink dried. My fingers hesitated at the edge of the page before sliding it into the book, right where the constellation maps began. I pressed it flat, my palm lingering against the cover.
I let my hand drift over the armrest, tracing the smooth wood. He’d thought of me when he bought it. Just like the risottos, the basil, the way he bought me four types of milk. He’d made space for me here.
And what had I done? Counted down the days until I could leave. Boxed up sweaters like they were armor.
My chest tightened. I wanted more than his cooking lessons. I wanted to return the gift, show him the sky the way he’d shown me the kitchen. To point out Orion, Cassiopeia, the twins arcing overhead. To sit in this chair, beside him, while the city hummed below and his hand held mine.
I closed the book gently, my thumb brushing over the cover before I set it back on the table. The note was there now, tucked inside. A piece of me I couldn’t pack away.