Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Keane
This might be my worst nightmare. Walking through town willingly in broad daylight while talking to my sponsor.
The sidewalks are alive, filled with people wandering in and out of small boutiques and cafes that line the streets. Planters overflowing with petunias and lavender line the walkways, and there’s an old-fashioned clock mounted on a pole near the corner store.
A couple of retirees wave at us from a shaded bench, sipping what I assume is coffee. Everything about this place screams small-town charm, right down to the hand-painted “Welcome to Luna Harbor” signs in the shop windows.
It’s picturesque. Quaint.
Did I mention suffocating?
Zeke walks beside me, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded denim jacket. His long strides make me feel like I’m always half a step behind, even when we’re walking in sync. I’ve known him a long time—since I first moved to Seattle, chasing the dream of starting my own band. Back then, his band, Sinners of Seattle, was huge. Untouchable, or so it seemed. Until everything fell apart.
We partied hard together—me, him, and his buddy, Rocco, who died of an overdose. May he rest in peace.
That’s why Zeke seemed like the right choice to be my sponsor. He knows the darkness I’m trying to claw my way out of, knows what it’s like to lose someone to it. He’s been my sponsor for six months now, though it’s only been in the last few weeks that I’ve started to trust him. Trust doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s a muscle I’ve torn too many times to think it’ll ever work the way it should.
“You’ve been running a lot,” Zeke says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm but carries a hint of concern, like he’s trying to gauge my mood. “Are you sure your legs can take it? Don’t overdo it, or you’ll mess up your muscles—or worse. You get my drift.”
“It’s not really running,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the cracked pavement beneath my feet. “More like fast walking. But yeah, I’ve been doing it. Helps clear my head.”
“Does it?” He side-eyes me, his tone skeptical. “Because it sounds like you’re trying to outrun something.”
I don’t answer, and he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Zeke—he knows when to shut up. Probably the only reason I haven’t ditched him yet.
We pass a storefront where a couple of kids are laughing over ice cream cones, their faces smeared with chocolate. Zeke nods toward them, his tone deliberately casual. “I heard from Nydia that you’ve got new neighbors. Her cousins Julianna and Rayne.”
Of course the town grapevine is in full swing. For fuck’s sake, this place is too small. Maybe getting lost in New York wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.
I tense, my jaw tightening as I shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. “Yeah,” I say, the word clipped. “Met them a couple of days ago.”
“What’s the story there?”
I glance at him, annoyed. “Why does there have to be a story?”
Zeke smirks like he’s won an argument I didn’t even know we were having. “You seemed annoyed as soon as I mentioned them.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “They’re okay. The kid’s quiet,” I say finally. “Doesn’t talk much. The aunt . . . she’s different. Every morning she’s out in the yard doing yoga or some shit. And sometimes she’s out there in the evening too, like she’s trying to stay in motion so she doesn’t have to sit still.”
Zeke’s gaze sharpens, his voice cutting through my defenses. “Sounds familiar.”
I glare at him. “She’s not me.”
“Never said she was.”
The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by the sound of our footsteps on the uneven sidewalk. A group of kids bursts out of a store ahead of us, their excited shouts echoing in the narrow street. A frazzled parent calls after them, “Stop running or we’re going home.”
I groan, the noise scraping against my nerves like sandpaper. This is more painful than trying to balance on one leg in physical therapy after my accident.
“You don’t like kids, huh?” Zeke’s voice is almost teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity. “No wonder you’re always avoiding my family.”
I stop in my tracks, turning to face him. The words are out before I can stop them. “It’s not that I don’t like kids. It’s that I . . .” My voice falters, the rest of the sentence catching in my throat like barbed wire.
Zeke stops too, his teasing demeanor fading as his expression softens. “It’s that what?” he asks, his tone quiet now.
“I avoid them,” I state.
My fists clench at my sides as I push the words out, each one feeling like it scrapes against my throat. “Have I ever told you we lost ours? Our baby?” The confession lingers between us, raw and exposed, a truth I barely dare to say out loud.
“Ophelia was pregnant,” I continue, my voice cracking under the strain. “We were going to have a daughter. And then the accident happened.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I whisper, my voice raw. “But if I hadn’t been . . .” My words trail off, swallowed by the lump in my throat.
Zeke exhales slowly, his hand landing on my shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “And I’m not saying that to make you feel better. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. If it had been, they would’ve pressed charges after the other driver—who was at fault—died.”
I nod, even though I don’t believe him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I didn’t do anything to avoid the accident. It’s all the same.
Zeke doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch out. I’m grateful for it.
“Having that kid next door,” I say finally, my voice shaking, “Rayne . . . it’s like the universe is screwing with me. She’s an orphan. And her aunt . . . Julianna? She’s trying so damn hard, and I see it. I see it, and it makes me want to . . . I don’t know.”
“You want to help her,” Zeke says simply.
I stop walking again, this time out of sheer frustration. “How the hell am I supposed to help anyone when I can’t even help myself?”
Zeke steps in front of me, his expression calm but firm. “By starting small,” he says. “By doing something. And maybe, just maybe, by getting out of your own damn way for once.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.
“It means,” he says, crossing his arms, “that Julianna’s not just some random woman doing yoga in her yard. She’s a trauma specialist. She works with people who’ve been through hell. People like you. You think it’s a coincidence she ended up next door?”
I stare at him, the words sinking in slowly. “You know her?”
“No, Nydia told me all about her,” he says. “She’s good at what she does. And she’s not the type to give up, even when things get messy.”
I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “What are you saying, Zeke? That I should ask her for help? Because that’s not happening.”
“Not help,” he says. “Work with her. She might be good for your physical recovery. Build some kind of routine. It’ll do you good. And who knows? Maybe you’ll stop feeling like the universe is fucking with you and start seeing this for what it is: a chance to get your shit together.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not. I fucking know how hard it is to try and fall apart. The key is finding what’s right for you and doing it for yourself,” Zeke says. “You need a start, Keane. You can’t keep running forever.”
I want to argue, to push back, but deep down, I know he’s right. I’ve been running for too long, and it’s gotten me nowhere.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, my voice low.
Zeke claps a hand on my shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s all I’m asking. Well, that and you should join us for dinner next weekend.”
“You’re pushing it,” I groan.
“Consider it. My kids can be messy, but also loving,” he says proudly.
And maybe it is time to stop avoiding life, but can I do it?