Chapter 6
Chapter Six
JENSEN
I slow the bike to an easy pace and pick up my phone from the cupholder. I have two missed texts. I turn my music down and open my messages.
The first one’s from Matt.
Matt
Hey man, Lucas said he’d come in Sunday for you and again in 3 weeks. Probably take 4-5 sessions to complete. Plan for a long day.
That’s great! Kinda shocked he had an opening that soon.
I know he didn’t have an opening. Matt probably paid him a ridiculous amount to bump someone or come in on his day off.
Matt
He didn’t. But he owed me a favor.
I shake my head, grinning, and open the next message.
Megan
Made us reservations at that cute breakfast place a few blocks from your place. The one I like. Not the one that sucks down the street from it. It’s for 9. I’ll meet you there.
I’m meeting Megan for breakfast to talk. To apologize. To make amends—to grovel, basically. And I’m praying she doesn’t stab me with a butter knife halfway through brunch.
Pressing on the brake knob, I come to a stop and reach for my towel. I wipe the sweat from my face, take a long swig from my water jug, and head for the elevators. I prefer running, but I’m being extra cautious with my knee. I can’t risk anything right now. I’m finally pain-free.
Rehab sucked at first, but it wasn’t all bad.
The therapists and counselors were great.
I made a few new friends, came out stronger, pain-free—and in the best shape of my life.
They had me on an anti-inflammatory diet—low carb, gluten- and sugar-free.
It was rough in the beginning, but I’m used to it now.
It’s not for everyone, but it worked for me, and I feel great, so I’ve just stuck with it.
Besides, keeping the same structure helps keep me grounded.
They assigned me a personal trainer, and working out was part of the deal. It wasn’t optional. Waking up early to hit the gym just became routine. Every day in there was about healing, confronting your past, building better habits, and staying clear-headed when the urges hit.
Turns out, sweating your ass off can help you think straight.
I text Megan back while I wait for the elevator.
See you at nine.
I’m halfway down the hall for a shower, protein shake in hand, when the doorbell rings. Muttering a curse, I turn back toward the door. When I open it, there’s a middle-aged woman standing in jeans and a coat zipped halfway.
“Are you Jensen Adams?”
My eyes drop to the manila envelope in her hands and it guts me. “Yeah,” I reply, hesitant.
She hands it over. “Mr. Adams, you’ve been served.”
She’s already walking away before I’ve even wrapped my fingers around it.
I stand there, frozen, watching her disappear down the hall. A wave of failure and fear hits me all at once as the elevator doors slide open. She steps inside, taking whatever hope I had left for my marriage with her.
“Fuck.” I rake a hand through my hair and swing the door shut behind me.
I toss the envelope onto the counter without opening it and head straight to the shower. Peeling off my sweaty gym clothes, I step inside and turn on the water. I let the cold stream hit my back while I wait for it to warm.
Once the water’s hot, I turn toward it, spitting it out as it runs down my face. I slick my hair back with my palm, then pump shampoo into my hand. I scrub it in, and the scent hits me—Alley. The steam carries it, flooding the shower, flooding me.
“Goddammit,” I mutter. The suds run down my chest, disappearing down the drain. I look around, and a weight presses heavy on my lungs. Her shampoo. Her conditioner. Her body wash. All the scents that used to cling to me after we fucked—when I held her in bed.
It’s all still here.
I press my palm to the tile, eyes clenched shut, the water beating down like it might wash away the ache clawing at my chest. I let out a sharp breath, trying like hell to hold it together.
Maybe I’ve been blind the past three days—trying too damn hard to stay positive. I walked around this place, looked at old photos, thought about her. But now—
She’s everywhere.
I smell her. I see her.
Fuck. I can practically feel her.
In my head, she’s right there on the other side of the glass, pushing her panties down to her ankles, lips curving as she steps in beside me, bare skin pressing against mine.
My dick twitches, and I let out a growl. My eyes snap open, and I slam the water off.
“Fuck this.” I shove a hand through my hair, then drag both down my face, squeegeeing the water from my skin. I wrap a towel around my waist and step out, leaving a trail of water across the floor.
Storming into the kitchen, I tear open the envelope and pull the papers out. A weight presses down on me instantly—like something heavy just dropped on my shoulders. My next breath is thick. Labored.
There it is.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
My chest rises and falls, slow and strained. It feels like I just lost a fight I never even got to show up for.
I skim the first few paragraphs, the legal jargon blurring together.
Division of property.
No minor children.
No shared debt.
So fucking formal. Like it wasn’t a life we built—just a contract to terminate.
I guess she didn’t need to text. Didn’t need to call. Her answer’s right here.
She could’ve told her lawyer to hold off. But she didn’t.
I scan the next few sentences and pause when I come across reason for divorce.
Petitioner asserts that the marriage has suffered an irretrievable breakdown.
“Irretrievable.” The word tastes bitter in my mouth. I scoff. “Fuck.”
I toss the papers down like they’re on fire. Planting both palms on the counter, I brace myself as my heart hammers in my ears.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Just breathe. In and out. That’s all. One breath at a time.
My eyelids flutter as I sniff, holding back the pressure building in my chest. I won’t let this wreck me.
I count to five. Then again.
Inhale. Exhale. Again.
Eventually, my heart rate starts to slow. I open my eyes and glance at the clock on the stove. Dammit. I’m supposed to meet Megan in twenty minutes.
I can’t do it. Not right now. I’m too close to breaking. Too fucking fragile.
I push away from the counter, head to the bathroom to grab my phone and text her.
I’m really sorry, but I need to reschedule. I can do later today or tomorrow.
I drop the towel and throw on boxer briefs, sweats, and a T-shirt. Phone in hand, I turn toward the kitchen, a sudden craving for a drink hitting me, fast and strong.
My phone dings.
Megan
Figures.
Shit. She doesn’t believe I’ve changed. Probably thinks I’ve relapsed—that I’m using again. It hurts more than I expected. The disbelief. The lack of faith.
Fuck that.
I text her back, shaking my head.
The fact that you have so little faith in me hurts in ways I can’t even explain. I’m not using. Something came up.
Megan
The fact that you can’t show up to a breakfast that was planned twenty-four hours ago to mend a relationship speaks volumes. I have a babysitter at my house and I’m already on my way. Fuck whatever came up. If this was important to you, you’d make it happen.
I slam the phone down, swing open the liquor cabinet, and stare up at all the liquid courage glaring back at me—Jameson, Maker’s Mark, Grey Goose, Casamigos Blanco, Patrón Silver, Hendrick’s. Bottles of wine too—Pinot, Cab, Malbec, Sauvignon.
Christ. I had a problem long before the addiction.
It’s a goddamn liquor store in here. I built this arsenal one bottle at a time—celebration, stress, sleep, sex. There was always a reason. This was always the answer.
I grab the Jameson—closest to me—and twist the cap off. Then I walk to the sink, turn on the tap, and tip the bottle over. The brown liquid spills down the drain in a steady stream, and I watch it disappear.
One down.
Then I do the same with the rest. The tequila. The vodka. The bourbon. The wine. One by one, I pour every single bottle down the drain, until it’s all gone.
I rinse my hands and dry them on a towel. Gripping the counter, I stare at the empty bottles, feeling equal parts defeat and satisfaction. They almost had power over me. Almost. But they didn’t. They don’t. Not anymore.
I pick up my phone. I can’t be alone right now. I’m too raw. Too tempted. My body’s yearning for an escape. I think about texting Matt, but the need to make things right with Megan is stronger.
Get fucking comfortable being uncomfortable.
I’m sorry, Meg. I was just served with divorce papers. I’m emotional—and honestly, I could use the company. It’s hard, and I’m tempted. Would you mind coming over instead?
Her reply is instant.
Megan
Already in the elevator.
Asshole ;-)
A breath escapes me—shaky, but laced with relief. A small smile tugs at my lips. She still loves me. She still gives a shit.
A minute later, there’s a knock on the door.
I haven’t seen Megan since I detoxed five months ago, and I’m not going to lie, our last encounters weren’t pretty. She was scary. Mean. A bitch.
We’ve been close our entire adult lives, and she and Alley were practically sisters. But things have been strained for over a year now.
I open the door, and there she is. Megan. My sister. Here to save me from myself.
She gives me a weak smile. “Hey Jackass.” Then, without hesitation, she pulls me into a hug—arms looped around my waist, ear pressed to my chest. I go still, letting the calm settle over me, then fold my arms around her. It’s the first real step toward something better since I got home.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice tight.
“Not really,” I admit. “But I will be… eventually.”
She pulls back, blinking fast. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. And I’m really sorry you’ve had to do it alone.” Her voice catches. “Dammit,” she mutters. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you.”
“You don’t owe me an apology. You were there for Alley when I wasn’t. I couldn’t be more grateful for that.” I step aside to let her in, then head for the kitchen. “You want something to drink?”
She follows me in but stops short when she sees the empty bottles lined up on the counter.
“Don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t drink them. Dumped everything down the sink.” I half-laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “So what I should be asking is, Want some water?”
She huffs out a laugh. “You could’ve at least saved the wine for me.” She makes her way to the Nespresso machine. “I’ll just make a coffee, if that’s cool.”
“Yeah, of course.”
She helps herself, opening the cupboard and grabbing a mug. “You want one?”
“Nah. I’m good. Had one this morning.” I take a seat at the counter, rubbing my palms on my pants. They’re damp. My hands won’t stop sweating.
I’ve just got to rip the damn Band-Aid off.
“Meg.” She looks up, mug in hand. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“For everything. For what you had to see.” My eyes flick to the divorce papers still sitting on the counter.
“For losing her.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep it together with each shaky breath.
This isn’t about me. It’s about her—what I put her through. How my choices hurt her.
When I open my eyes, Megan’s are red and misty, and a steady stream of tears is running down her cheeks.
“I know,” she says, voice trembling. “And I’m so fucking mad at you for it.”
I nod, letting it land. Letting her be mad. “You don’t have to forgive me. I don’t deserve it. I know that.” I pause, my voice low. “But I’d really like us to be friends again. If you can stand being around a fuckup little brother like me.”
She sniffs and wipes at her nose, collecting herself. “Stop. You know I love you. You’re my baby brother.” She takes a breath and blows it out slowly. “I guess there’s only up from here, right?” A laugh slips out. “Can’t really get much worse.”
I let a smile stretch across my lips. “Well, it could actually get a lot worse.”
We both laugh, and it lightens the air around us.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says, looking down at her mug. Then her eyes meet mine. “And I swear to God, if you relapse, I’ll kick your ass.”
I chuckle. “Noted.”
My eyes drift to the divorce papers on the counter, and my chest tightens.
“I’m gonna get her back,” I say, my voice breaking the stillness.
“What?”
“I’m gonna get her back,” I repeat, this time with more conviction.
“You think?”
“Yeah.” I nod, reassuring myself. “I just need to see her. Remind her of what we have, you know?”
Her brows pull together. “I don’t know, Jensen.” Her voice is soft but pointed. “I’ve talked to her… and it doesn’t seem like she’s interested in trying to make things work. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about what’s next. Let her go—move on.”
Let her go? Move on?
“No.” My voice is steady, firm. “I don’t think it is.”
I know I sound delusional, like I’m clinging to denial. After everything Matt’s said, and now Megan? I told myself I was ready for this moment. For these papers. But now that they’re here, I’m more determined than ever not to give up. Not to let her go.
Now is the time to dig my heels in, finish this war I started—the one I put in the middle of my goddamn marriage.
She hasn’t even seen me yet. And when she does, I know she’ll feel it. We’ve been through hell and back, dragged through every kind of wreckage—but this whole time, we’ve been fighting for the same damn thing. Us.
She just doesn’t see it yet. But she will.
They say believing is half the battle.
Well, I fucking believe in us.
Megan lifts a brow, lips twitching. “Well, selfishly, I hope you’re right. For both our sakes.”
Megan ended up staying for a couple of hours. We talked, then watched a movie. She left about twenty minutes ago.
I wander into the kitchen, looking for something to eat, but stop when I pass the papers again.
I take a photo of them. Might as well let Alley know I got them. The sooner I talk to her, the sooner I can start earning back her trust. We’ve got a long road ahead—and I’m determined to put all this shit behind us.
Got these today. I knew it was coming, but… yeah. Hit harder than I expected. When can I see you?
I attach the photo and hit send.
I debated adding that I love her. But she knows I love her.
And if she doesn’t…
She’s about to.