Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Angel
The second the words leave my mouth, I know.
You don’t need a mirror for that kind of truth.
You feel it in your gut, sharp and sickening, like you just drove your bike straight into a wall you didn’t see coming.
Having kids isn’t everything, but I didn’t mean it like that.
Didn’t mean any of it like that. But intent don’t mean shit once the damage is done.
Stevie’s face goes still. Not angry. Not loud. Just… empty. And that’s worse than if she’d screamed at me or thrown something or told me to get the hell out. Because I know that look. That’s the look of someone pulling the pieces of themselves back in so no one else can touch them.
“Stevie,” I say, softer now, slower, like I can rewind time if I just choose my tone right. “That’s not what I meant.”
She looks at me like I just spoke a different language.
“But it’s what you said.”
Fuck.
“I was tryin’ to say…” I stop and drag a hand down my face. Start again. “I was tryin’ to say that you are everything. That us…”
“You don’t get to backtrack now,” she cuts in, voice shaking but controlled. Too controlled. “You said it because you believe it.”
“That’s not true.”
She laughs then, short and broken. “It must be nice. To be able to step back. To say this doesn’t define you.”
“That’s not...”
“You don’t wake up every morning in a body that feels like it’s failing,” she says, tears streaking down her cheeks now. “You don’t watch the calendar like it’s a countdown clock. You don’t feel like the world’s waiting to see if you’re enough.”
I take a step toward her. She steps back. That’s when I know I’ve fucked up worse than I thought.
“I didn’t mean to minimize it,” I say hoarsely. “I swear to God, Stevie. I was scared. I didn’t know how to pull you back without—”
“Without what?” she snaps. “Making it smaller? Making me smaller?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because no matter how I dress it up, the truth underneath is ugly: I was afraid.
Afraid she was disappearing again.
Afraid I’d lose her to the same obsession that almost broke us before.
Afraid that hope, real hope, was gonna tear her apart all over again.
And instead of saying that, I chose the worst possible words. She turns and locks herself in the bathroom. The click of the lock sounds like a gunshot. I stand there staring at the door, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at me to break it down, pull her into my arms, and make it right.
But this isn’t a door you kick in. This is a line you crossed. I sink down onto the couch, elbows on my knees, hands dangling useless between them. My chest feels tight, like there’s a band wrapped around it and someone’s pulling hard.
This is why I’m bad at this shit. Give me a gun. A plan. A threat I can see coming. Don’t give me the woman I love crying behind a locked door because of something I said when I was tired and scared and human.
I hear movement inside the bathroom. A soft sound that might be her crying or might be her trying not to. I press my forehead into my hands.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time gets slippery when regret sinks in this deep. I knock once, gently.
“Stevie,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
No answer. I lean my head against the doorframe. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know how much this means to you. I know what you’ve lost. And I hate myself right now for makin’ it sound like it doesn't matter.”
Still nothing. “I wasn’t tryin’ to tell you to stop wantin’ it,” I continue. “I was tryin’ to tell you that if it never happens, if it doesn’t, you still matter. We still matter.”
The words feel thin now. Late.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly. “Scared that every time you hope, it’s gonna tear you open again. And I don’t know how to stop that without sayin’ the wrong damn thing.”
My throat tightens. “But I would never, never, tell you that this isn’t everything when it feels like it is. Not to you. Not ever.”
The lock doesn’t click. The door doesn’t open. And that’s when it really hits me: 'Sorry' isn’t always enough.
I don’t leave the house.
I don’t go to the bar.
Don’t call the brothers.
Don’t do the things I usually do when shit gets heavy.
I sit and wait.
And I hate myself for the relief I feel when she finally opens the door.
She doesn’t look at me. Walks straight past, phone in hand, jacket already on.
“Where are you goin’?” I ask, standing.
“Out,” she says. Flat. Closed.
“Stevie, please.”
She stops by the door, back to me. Her shoulders rise and fall like it takes effort just to breathe.
“I can’t be here right now,” she says. “Not after that.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know,” she says quietly. “But it still hurt.”
That’s the part that wrecks me. Not anger but understanding.
She opens the door. “Let me come with you,” I say. “Let me fix this.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t fix it. You just… have to let it be broken for a minute.”
Then she’s gone. The door shuts behind her and I’m alone again with the echo of words I can’t take back. I sit at the kitchen table long after she leaves.
The house feels hollow. Like it’s holding its breath. I replay the moment over and over, wishing I’d stopped myself. Wishing I’d chosen better. Wishing I’d said I’m scared instead of it’s not everything.
Because that was the truth. Not that it didn’t matter. But that I was terrified of losing her to it.
I grab my phone and type her name. Delete. Type again. Delete again. Finally, I settle on the only thing that feels honest.
I’m sorry. I love you. And I’m here when you’re ready.
I hit send and set the phone face down like it might burn me if I look at it too long. This is the part of love no one talks about.
The part where you don’t get to be right.
Where intention doesn’t erase impact.
Where the only thing left to do is wait and hope the person you hurt believes you when you say you didn’t mean to wound them.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. I don’t know what comes next. But I know if she walks away because of this, it’ll be my fault. And if she comes back? I’m never letting fear speak for me again.