Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Keane
Julianna sits across from me, her hands wrapped tightly around her phone, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the trees or the lake. She’s quiet, her breathing measured but not quite calm, as if she’s teetering on the brink of something fragile.
Maybe I should go, I’m not great at helping others. Listening wasn’t my strength back when I was . . . well, me. Now, I don’t even talk to people. It’s obvious I haven’t changed. But somehow, I don’t like the dried tears on her cheeks, the sadness in her face. It bothers me in a way that I want to fix it. Which again, it is definitely not me.
“I spoke to my estranged father,” she says softly, her voice carrying a mixture of hesitation and resolve. “We haven’t spoken much since he divorced Mom. One day he was there, the next he was gone. And . . . it seems like Elena, my sister, had a lot to do with their separation.”
Her eyes drop to her lap, and a shadow crosses her face. She hesitates, then continues. “Elena was always difficult. She lied—about everything—all the time. She had an entitled attitude and created trouble everywhere she went. It seemed like my father tried to stop her from drinking at a young age, but . . .”
Julianna takes a deep breath, her fingers drumming against the wineglass she doesn’t want to leave. “I mean, I’m not surprised Dad tried to stop it. And I shouldn’t be surprised that Mom didn’t let him. She . . . coddled my sister. A lot. Too much, probably. It was like no matter what Elena did, Mom always found a way to justify it. Not sure if she ever stopped drinking or how much she changed once she had Rayne, still . . . the most I remember about my sister is her constant drinking and lying.”
“Addicts lie to get what they want,” I say, keeping my tone even but not detached. “We do. I lied to my ex-fiancée more times than I can count. Convinced her I was clean when I wasn’t. She always believed me. She always wanted to see the best in me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Her gaze shifts to me then, piercing, curious. “What happened to you?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. The memories swirl around me, threatening to drown me. This stranger doesn’t need to know about my past. The pretty fucked up life I lived before destroying everything in just one night. Or maybe I was already breaking everything before the grand finale that left me in a coma.
“Life caught up with me,” I simply say, but the words taste bitter in my mouth.
I wait for Julianna to be disgusted by me, angry for knowing I’m an addict. But her expression doesn’t change. She’s still expectant, waiting for more. So I tell her.
I tell her about the car accident—the way the world went dark in an instant and how I woke up in a hospital bed five years later, my body battered and my mind shattered. There’s not much to say about the long, empty years where time didn’t exist for me but moved on for everyone else. And then I tell her the worst part: waking up to realize I had lost everything. My career. My relationships—Philly and our child.
The pieces of my life that had once defined me were gone, scattered like ash in the wind. I don’t add that my music, the one constant in my life, is also gone. That . . . that’s something I can’t bring myself to say out loud.
Her face softens as she listens, her lips parting slightly, her brow furrowed with something that looks like empathy but cuts deeper. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush to fill the silence that lingers after I finish. Instead, she leans forward, her fingers brushing against mine.
My breath catches as her hand moves, her touch trailing lightly over the scars on the back of my hand. Her thumb traces the jagged line that runs across my knuckles, the movement slow and reverent, like she’s trying to understand a part of me. And I hate how she makes me feel, like I matter, like I could be someone important if only I let myself believe it.
“You’re still here,” she murmurs, her voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.
Her words strike a chord deep within me, touching a part of my soul I thought had long been buried. It’s not raw anymore, not jagged like it once was, but tender in a way that reminds me healing doesn’t erase the scars—it just makes them easier to carry.
My throat tightens at the realization. Her touch feels like both comfort and a challenge, a quiet invitation to let her in, even if I don’t know how. An invitation to let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to do all this alone. That the scars don’t make me unworthy of connection—they’re just part of the story, one she seems willing to not only learn, but understand.
I glance up, and our eyes meet. There’s something in her gaze that makes my pulse quicken. Attraction, maybe. Or the quiet stirrings of something I haven’t felt in a long time.
I want her. The realization is as startling as it is undeniable. It’s not just her touch or the way her eyes hold mine—it’s the way she sees me. She doesn’t flinch at the scars, doesn’t define me by the wreckage of my past. When she’s near, I’m not the man who destroyed his life or the ghost of a celebrity. I’m just me. And she makes me feel like it might be enough.
It’s hard to ignore the wariness in her expression: the careful way she moves, as if she’s balancing on the edge of something fragile. She’s cautious, guarded, and I can’t blame her. I’ve been nothing but shards and wreckage for so long.
Her fingers linger on my hand for a moment longer before she pulls back. “Sorry,” she says, her voice a little shaky. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt, not wanting her to finish. Not wanting her to apologize for touching me, for wanting me—if that’s even what this is. Maybe we’re not ready for any of that yet.
I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to love again. Not that I could call the way I . . . not that I could call whatever it is love. I sigh, trying to shove the thought aside. Thinking about how I ruined it all, how much damage I caused, feels like dragging shards of glass through this moment. I don’t want to stain whatever this is, fragile as it may be, by bringing up my past failures.
But it’s hard to stay present, to be here with her, without the past creeping into my thoughts. I want to focus on the way her touch lingers even after it’s gone, the way her presence makes the broken pieces of me feel a little less jagged. I want to believe in the possibility of something new, something real, but part of me wonders if I’m too far gone to deserve it.
We sit in silence for a moment. I let myself look at her, really take her in—the way her hair falls over her shoulder, the soft curve of her lashes casting faint shadows on her cheeks. She’s beautiful, but it’s not just that. It’s the way she’s present, fully here, in this moment, with me.
She gives me the sense that maybe I’m not entirely lost.
“This, who I am, is not the person I used to be. I worked in Seattle for a big corporation,” she breaks the silence, surprising me with the first couple of sentences. I don’t interrupt, just watch her intently as she continues, “Long hours, high stress. It . . . it felt like I was losing pieces of myself every day. I’d sit at my desk, staring at spreadsheets and reports, and wonder if this was enough to get another raise, a bonus, a . . . there’s always a new goal to meet. But really I wasn’t making anything of myself.”
I nod, not because I know what that feels like, but because I’m trying to encourage her to continue.
“I left because . . .” She hesitates, and I can see the battle in her eyes, the push and pull of whether to keep going. Finally, she takes a deep breath and sets the mug down. “My ex. He . . . accidentally pushed me down the stairs during a fight. I’ll never forget the way he tried to downplay it, said it wasn’t what it looked like, that I slipped. The head injury made it hard for me to concentrate. I had lost part of what made me great at that job.”
Her voice tightens, and she looks down at her hands. “Recovering from that wasn’t just physical. It was grueling in every way you can imagine. I had to rebuild myself, figure out how to trust my own instincts again. Walking away from my job and from him was the hardest and best decision I ever made.”
I don’t say anything, letting her have the space to tell her story without interruption.
“That was when I decided to change everything,” she says, her voice steadier now. “I threw myself into therapies and ways to be different from who I was back then. I found trauma-informed yoga. It helped me not only physically, but mentally. Once I was strong enough, I wanted to help others, show them how to reconnect with themselves after a grueling accident or . . .”
“That’s . . . impressive,” I say finally, my voice rougher than I intended. “Most people don’t have the guts to make a change like that.”
She looks at me, her eyes steady. “Most people don’t have to lose everything to realize they’re not living the life they want.”
The way she says it, so matter-of-fact, sends a jolt through me. I’ve spent so long trying to rebuild my old life, living in self-pity because I might never be the Keane Stone I was before the accident. And this woman just showed me how easy it is just to step into the unknown. Reshape your entire life and challenge yourself to become someone else.
“That’s quite the shift from corporate life,” I state. “Not sure if I could . . . I don’t even know what I can do if I can’t have my old life back.”
“It’s different, that’s for sure. But it feels . . . right. Like I’m finally doing something that matters,” she states. “What is it that you used to do? What brought you here?”
“Needed a change of scenery, so my brother wouldn’t see me wasting away because I couldn’t go back to the old me,” I say finally, keeping my voice neutral.
She tilts her head, studying me. “That’s a nice way of saying you’re running from everyone and you don’t want to confront your present.”
I glance at her, caught off guard by the bluntness of her words. She doesn’t flinch under my gaze. It’s disarming, the way she looks at me like she’s not afraid of what she might find.
“Maybe,” I admit, the word feeling heavier than it should. “Or maybe I just needed some quiet.”
“Quiet can be dangerous,” she says, her voice soft but pointed. “Sometimes it makes you listen to things you’ve been trying to ignore. Other times, you fill the silence with lies. Lies that don’t allow you to move forward.”
She’s right, of course. The quiet here doesn’t drown out the past. It amplifies it. Silence tells me I’m a fucking loser who doesn’t deserve to have a life.
“You’re good at that,” I say, my tone gruffer than I intend. “Getting under people’s skin.”
“It’s not about getting under your skin.” She smiles. “It’s about understanding what’s beneath it.”
“You’re different,” I say finally, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“Good different or bad different?” she asks, her lips quirking into a teasing smile.
“Not sure yet,” I admit.
“Well, while you’re deliberating, why don’t you come over every morning and join me for yoga? It might help you figure out how to move forward,” she says it so easily. Come over, we’ll figure it out.
Can I ever figure anything out? Make a life for myself?