Chapter 20
35 hours until the wedding
As soon as the call ends, I wait for the surge of absolution. The calm acceptance that I’ve done something empowering. After all, I know ending things with Carter was the right thing to do—the necessary thing—but my heart hasn’t quite caught up with my brain just yet. It’s still sore and bruised and tender, and I sink to my knees, crushed by the weight of it.
Once I start crying, I can’t stop. I cry until I’m choking on my own breath, eyes blurring, throat raw.
But I know, in between inelegant sobs, that the sheer volume of tears can’t be explained by Carter alone. It’s not just the end of our eight-year relationship that I’m crying over. It’s everything. It’s the sharp, painful release of hope. The unknown of what comes next. The ache in the hollow pit of my stomach, reminding me that the fantasy I’d clung so tightly to was nothing more than a mirage.
I think back to what Jack said the night we met, about everyone being the villain in someone else’s story. All this time I thought Carter was the hero in mine. The knight in shining armor. The handsome prince. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t the villain either. He just wasn’t right . And somehow that quiet truth is almost harder, more painful to accept.
I’m crying so hard I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps on the concrete until he’s standing over me.
“Ada?”
I jerk my head upward to see Jack, barefoot, wearing boxer briefs and a wrinkled T-shirt that clings to his chest like a second skin. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are still bleary with sleep. But as soon as his gaze meets mine, his eyes widen with concern.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, squatting down beside me. “What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing.” I look away, trying to hide my tearstained face.
“Ada.” His voice softens. “What’s going on? What happened?”
Maybe it’s the slice of moonlight painted across his face, or the tenderness of his voice, but something about it coaxes the words to the surface.
“I…I…” I choke on the words, my voice snagging as a tearful hiccup escapes me. “I ended things with Carter. For good.”
Jack doesn’t ask any questions. Not when or why or how. Instead, he pulls me into him, hard body melting against mine as he strokes my back.
There’s a brief moment of hesitation, a quiet reminder that I shouldn’t, but the thought is muted against the warmth of his body, and I burrow into him, letting him take my weight as I collapse into a fresh wave of tears.
I should probably be ashamed of the fact that I’m sobbing into the chest of a man I’ve only known a few days, that I’ve soaked his shirt with my tears, but it feels good to finally release the pent-up swell of emotions I’ve clung to for months.
Of course I’ve cried over Carter since the break. But always in private. Alone. Where no one could see me. Where no one could worry about me or ask questions I didn’t want to answer. But as Jack’s hands travel up and down my spine in comforting waves, I allow myself to relax into him, dissolving into the warm, solid weight of his arms.
“Well, aren’t you going to say it?” I say after a minute.
“Say what?”
“ I told you so . You were right. I was wrong. About all of it.”
His hands halt their movement and I watch Jack’s expression, aware of the slow path of his mouth as it moves from surprised to something else. Something sharper, more rigid. After a minute, he says, “I don’t think you were wrong, Ada. I think you were brave .”
I blanch, taken aback. “Brave?”
Slowly, he nods. “I think it takes a lot of courage to not only walk away from a relationship that’s not serving you, but to still believe that real love is out there, and to be vulnerable enough to keep looking for it.”
If I wasn’t so shocked, I’d laugh. “But…” I frown, searching his face. “Aren’t you going to tell me that love’s a social construct? That I’m foolish for wanting to find it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his jaw tightens, brows clenched in thought. Finally, he says, “I think you deserve to find someone who is willing to do whatever it takes to be with you. Someone who is all in. Someone who understands how epically funny and sexy you are…I mean, fuck .” He shakes his head. “If Carter didn’t spend the last two and a half months wondering how the hell to get you back, then…” But I don’t get to hear what Carter should have done because his voice trails off, cheeks turning pink.
Sexy?
Did Jack just say I’m sexy?
“What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been that guy, Ada. The guy who was willing to do anything to be with a girl. And you don’t wait around. You don’t ask for breaks. You don’t lead her on for eight years. I know what it’s like to be willing to crawl over broken glass to be with someone. And when you really love someone, that’s what you’re willing to do.” His voice stretches, a beat of desperation coursing through his words, and I can’t help but feel like the rug’s been pulled out from under me. Since when does Jack Houghton know what it means to fall in love?
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “I thought you expiration date or whatever?”
His jaw muscles clench as silence swallows up the air between us. Finally, he says, “I’m getting divorced, Ada.”
I blink once, twice.
Divorced?
But that can’t be right. In order to get divorced, you have to first be married, and Jack doesn’t do commitment. He thinks marriage is a scam.
I sit up, eyes latching to his. “What are you talking about?” I repeat. “You shit on marriage and relationships—” But I stop myself when I see his face visibly sink.
“Ada…” He draws a shaky breath. “It’s all a fucking way to cope, okay?”
I try to untangle what he’s just said, to fit it into what I know about Jack. But it’s like I’ve started watching a movie from the end, and now I have no idea what’s going on.
I study the downward tilt of his mouth, the sag of his features, the way the outdoor lighting casts hazy shadows across his face, and slowly the truth bobs to the surface, clear and unfoggy in a way it wasn’t before.
Jack is getting divorced.
Because Jack is married.
His words shift inside me like sandstone, slowly rearranging the landscape of my memories over the past few days. The phone calls. The texts. Everything he said on the train. The fucking gift card he’s getting Allison and Collin. All of it reshuffles in my brain until finally it forms a recognizable image. Something that makes sense.
There’s so much I want to ask, so many things to unpack, but all I can manage is, “The phone call the other day with that guy, Doug, that was about your divorce, wasn’t it?”
He lets out a long sigh and rubs the heel of his palm against his temple.
“That was my lawyer. Her and I been separated for almost a year, but we’re finally making it official.”
We. There’s something so belabored about his use of we , like the mere utterance of the pronoun is exhausting to him.
“The whole thing’s been a disaster,” he continues, eyes going dark. “She wants the house. We’ve been fighting over it for months.”
She wants the house.
The question appears on my tongue, even though I think I already know the answer. “What’s her name?”
“Lexi.”
“Lexi,” I repeat, trying her name out . It tastes like salt when you expect sugar.
Lexi, who still texts him. Lexi, who wants to grab dinner when he gets back . The knot in my throat tightens like a noose.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
He sighs, features withering. “Maybe I didn’t tell you the truth for the same reason you kept telling yourself you wanted to get back with Carter—because it’s easier that way.”
His eyes flash to mine like he can see me all the way down to my splintered center.
“You were right the other day, when you said I was cliché,” he goes on. “ The guy who engages in meaningless hookups with women whose names he won’t remember, professing he doesn’t fall in love. Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he adds with a humorless laugh. “I’m the cliché, cynical divorced guy trying to fuck my way out of being depressed. And spoiler alert, it’s not going very well.”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s quoting me, but when I do, pangs of unease twist and flail inside me.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t,” he says quickly. “You were right. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have been honest.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t my business.”
He shakes his head, frustrated. “No, I should have told you. It wasn’t fair of me to keep that from you, not when you were so transparent with me.”
Our eyes latch, an unspoken thread of thoughts siphoning between us.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I tell him.
That’s not necessarily true. I want to hear about it. Every word. I want to know all about the woman he had been in love with, maybe even is still in love with. But I also want to be sensitive.
For a long moment he doesn’t say anything. He looks past me, out into the expanse of darkness around us. I watch him, uncertain if this is where the conversation ends.
After a beat, he says, “Lexi and I rushed into things. It was like everything was in fast-forward with us. We were reckless and in love, and a whirlwind wedding felt like the right thing at the time. In retrospect, I think we both felt like we had to rush, because if we stopped to contemplate what we were doing, we wouldn’t have done it.”
He pauses, expression wavering as a riptide of shadows washes over his face.
“Things were always rocky with us,” he goes on. “But I thought that’s just what passion looked like. I thought that was just what couples did. They fought. They yelled. They said things they didn’t mean. They left for days without notice only to come back and make up.
“Then the fighting reached a boiling point that was unsustainable, so I insisted we start going to couples counseling. But things didn’t get better. We kept fighting. The same fights over and over again. Like it was the hurdle we couldn’t seem to clear. Everything always went from zero to sixty. It was like there was something about the other person that just set us both off.” His shoulders slump as though the weight of trying to figure it out is a burden he’s stilling carrying.
“A year ago we decided to separate. I didn’t want the separation, but it seemed like the best idea at the time. I think in the back of my mind I figured we’d work it out and she’d come back.” He pauses, deep lines bracketing either side of his mouth. “But she didn’t. Instead, she told me she wasn’t sure she ever loved me and that she wanted a divorce.”
For a long moment neither of us says anything. We hover there, the space between us shrinking like someone’s swallowed up all the oxygen.
I search his face, trying to find the right words. “Do you think there…?”
“Do I think there was someone else?” he asks.
I dip my chin into a timid nod.
The creases around Jack’s eyes deepen. “I don’t think so. Or at least when I asked her, she said no. I think she was just unhappy, something that compounded over time until she realized she didn’t want to be married anymore. That she didn’t want me anymore.”
He sounds defeated, resigned, like the cocky, self-assured man I’ve slept beside the last two nights has burned off, leaving behind only the charred, broken bits. It makes me ache in ways I don’t think I fully understand.
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he says. “I’ve replayed it over and over, trying to figure it out, like it was some kind of relationship Rubik’s Cube, and if I could just crack it then I could fix things.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“I know. But maybe that’s worse. Like there was nothing I could do. She just didn’t love me anymore.”
As he says it, his whole body sags, exhales coming out shallow, like he’s just tumbled over the finish line, out of breath and out of steam.
He looks so raw right now, and for a minute I just stare at him, attempting to contend with the unfamiliar expressions of hurt and vulnerability I’ve only ever caught stray glimpses of.
A new ache emerges as the remaining pieces shift into place. Jack’s guardedness. His comment about crawling over broken glass for someone he loved. Why Jack had had such strong thoughts about Carter.
It wasn’t because he was a cynic. Or even judgmental. It was because he’d been hurt. Badly.
The ache builds to a deafening throb, pounding in my ears, indistinguishable from my own pulse.
When I finally speak, my voice comes out as raw as I feel. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry she hurt you.” I reach for his hand, tentatively lacing my fingers through his. He squeezes my hand back, and for a long moment neither of us says anything. We just stay like that, hands clasped in the darkness, a new kind of wavelength vibrating between us.
Our pain might come in different shapes and sizes, born of different circumstances, but here, in the shadows, fingers intertwined like lifelines, it’s hard to see where my hurt ends and his begins.
“She still reaches out sometimes,” Jack says after a minute.
I think about the text I saw. My chest tightens.
“What does she want?” I ask.
“She says she wants to talk. Always framing it like I’m the one who won’t give her a chance.” He shakes his head, a ripple of frustration crossing his face. “Sometimes I think she’s just trying to fuck with me. Like she wants to prove I still have feelings for her.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Still have feelings for her?”
I feel like I’m poking a bruise to see if it’s still sore, but I can’t help it.
He lets out a belabored sigh, dark eyes trailing down to the ground. “She was my wife. We talked about having kids and growing old. We made vows to one another. We had a life together. I can’t just pretend like none of that happened. Like the last five years hadn’t been real. But sometimes I wish they hadn’t. Sometimes I wish I’d never met her.” He winces like the words taste bad.
I squeeze his hand. “Trust me. I get it. I…” But I let my voice trail off and instead wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into the crook of his shoulder. Jack’s body stiffens with surprise, but slowly, he gathers me into the solid warmth of his chest.
I can’t say for sure, but something about the way he’s clinging to me makes me wonder if he’s talked to anyone about this. Or if he’s been carrying this burden alone. The thought makes my heart ache all over again, and I hug him tighter, willing my body to say all the words I can’t form.
I’m sorry she hurt you.
I’m sorry you’ve been carrying this alone.
I’m here.
For a long moment, neither of us move. We stay there, both of us holding one another until Jack pulls back, limbs jerking upright.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he says, brow scrunching against the moonlight. “You’re upset about Carter and I just made this about me. Jesus, I feel like an asshole right now.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I’m glad you told me. I’m here if you want to talk about it…or not talk. That’s cool too.” I give him a reassuring smile.
He holds my gaze a moment longer before pulling me back into his chest. “I’m sorry about Carter,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m sorry it ended the way it did.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” I whisper back. “I know you didn’t have a choice and we sort of just ended up on this trip together, but I’m glad it was you I got stuck with.”
He holds me tighter. “Me too.”
Jack draws his thumb up and down my spine, and I allow myself to sink into him, feeling the warmth of his body and the slow, methodical rise and fall of his breathing. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He’s safe and warm and for the first time I allow myself to seriously wonder what could have happened that first night. If Jack had tried to kiss me and if I’d let him. If I’d said, Fuck Carter , and slept with Jack.
It probably would have been a mistake, but what if it hadn’t…?
I think back to the pub, what could have happened—what almost did—and I’m filled with an insatiable tug of what if.
Maybe it’s not the most appropriate thought to be having right now when he’s just told me about his divorce, but I feel greedy for him. Like now that he’s let me in this much, it’s not enough. I want more. I want to break open the tiny crack in his wall until I can see everything. Until I can have all of him.
I’m not sure who catches whose eyes. Maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s me. But our eyes latch and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. If he’s tormented by the same what if I am.
My skin singes with the memory of his hands on my waist. Of his lips hovering over mine. The brief moment where I’d wondered, with almost feverish hope, if he’d kiss me.
The memory falls around me like a heavy curtain, blocking out everything else, and the confusing tugs of want that have coalesced around the edges of my mind all day bob to the surface, this time louder, more urgent.
There’s a tiny voice in the back of my head that wonders if I’m moving on too fast. If I ought to slow down, grieve Carter a little more. But I don’t want to slow down. I’m tired of waiting for someone else to make me happy. Maybe I’m finally ready to chase what I want.
What if. The words pound against my skull, egging me on.
What if.
What if?
Maybe it’s the final remnants of Scotch still circulating in my bloodstream, or the warm, fuzzy feelings of shared intimacy, but before I can consider it a moment longer, I lean in, cupping his jaw in my hands, and press my lips to his.
A surprised groan vibrates in the back of his throat as our mouths meet, and I draw a sharp breath, inhaling his scent, feeling his body seize against mine. But as quickly as it starts, Jack places a hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me away.
I shrink back, cheeks burning. “Ohmygod. I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be.” But his eyes are wide like he’s caught under a spotlight.
I press a hand to my forehead like I might be feverish.
I don’t know what came over me. I thought we were having a moment. I thought…But all the rationale that had made perfect sense seconds ago dulls under the heady pressure of his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s fine,” he says, looking anything but fine. “You’re…” He falters, expression softening. But it’s not the way someone would look at a lover, more like how a parent might look at a small child who has fallen and scraped their knee. Like he feels sorry for me.
“I’m what ?” I ask, voice stretched thin.
“You’re still drunk. And you’re upset about Carter. You’re emotionally…” He twirls his hand in the air, grasping for a word. “ Emotionally vulnerable .”
Who is he trying to convince here? Me or him?
Frustration and shame twist together, forming one long braid inside me. Shame that I just did that. But also frustration that he didn’t kiss me back. That he’d looked at me like that. That he’d let me believe he might want this too.
I’d seen the way he looked at me in the bookstore. The way he’d held my hand too long. The way he’d pulled me close on the dance floor.
“So what?” I ask, shifting back, away from him. “The other night you were ready to fuck after a couple of beers, and suddenly you’ve got a conscience?” As the words tumble out of me, hot and heavy, I know I’m being unfair, especially if the roles were reversed. But I’m mad. Mostly at myself. Mad that I allowed myself to get caught up in him and this ill-advised crush.
Jack shakes his head, exasperated. “No, Ada. That’s not it.”
“Then what is it? Tell me.” I search his face, silently begging him to tell me he wanted me the way I wanted him. But he looks away.
“We should go to bed,” he says.
“Jack—”
“You should get some rest. We both should.” There’s a finality to his voice that feels like a heavy door closing in my chest.
I open my mouth to protest, to accuse him of something, but nothing comes out.
He stands up and gives me his hand. I look down at it. He’s offering me an alibi. And I ought to take it. I ought to play along. Agree that I’m still drunk as I stumble on my way to bed. Maybe even slur my words. Whatever I need to do to absolve myself of the mess I’ve just made.
But the truth is I’m not drunk.
I knew what I was doing. I wanted to kiss Jack. I still do.