Chapter 8
Eight
Sleep never comes. I give up at five and start firing off emails to my paralegal while drinking as much coffee as I can to distract myself from the growing anxiety. I watch the sun crest the horizon. A new day is here.
I slide into my sneakers by the door and throw on a final layer. Footsteps from the kitchen catch my attention, and I look up to find James draining a cup of coffee, dressed for a run.
He takes in the form-fitting Lycra and freezes. His stare is heavy and blatant, lingering long enough to warm my whole body. Then Bell walks through the foyer, nails tapping hard against the floor, and he tears his eyes away, leaning down to lace up his sneakers.
“Mind if I tag along? I promise I’m much more capable on my feet without skates,” he says without looking up.
I pause for a second, debating whether inviting him is a good idea. Seriously, I’m running to buy pregnancy tests. But knowing something is dumb and not doing it are two different things. What’s the harm in a few easy miles together?
“I’m running into the village to grab something from the convenience store. You can come if you’re up for six or seven hilly miles. But don’t expect me to slow down for you.” I wink and head out the door before I can flirt any further.
As we set off down the driveway toward the main road into town, the crisp mountain air fills my lungs.
Being outside, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the forest and the sting of the cold, steadies my mind.
We run in easy silence, our strides naturally in sync, until I decide to break it.
I need to set some boundaries, especially after his bullshit last night.
“Okay, convince me you’re not a fuckboy stringing Ivy along. I saw you checking out my ass. That didn’t feel brotherly.”
A flush stains his cheeks, and my resolve stutters.
“How do I convince you I’m a good guy? Twenty questions.”
“Twenty questions? What is this, a teenage sleepover?”
James lets out a low chuckle. “Humor me, Sydney. Twenty questions. Completely honest answers. No deflecting, no half-truths. You ask, I answer. Then I ask, and you answer. Deal?”
Torn between curiosity and self-preservation, I stall. But there’s something in his expression, a vulnerability beneath the charm, that has me nodding.
“Fine. But I go first,” I say. “What’s the number one thing on your bucket list?”
“Hmm, I haven’t really thought about a bucket list. I’m thirty-six, not exactly in the last throes of life. But there are a few things. I want to run all six major marathons. And I want to climb Kilimanjaro.”
“Have you run any of the majors yet? I’ve crossed New York City and Boston off my list.”
“So you weren’t kidding about not slowing down for me? I’ve run Boston and London. Running Chicago this year.” He pauses, considering, and asks, “Were you Homecoming Queen in high school?”
“What kind of question is that?” I scoff, but feel the heat creep into my cheeks. “My school didn’t even have homecoming. And I wouldn’t have gotten it anyway. I was too quiet and weird for anyone to appreciate. Favorite color?”
“We’re diving deep. It’s green. Are you a flowers-and-chocolate person, or do you prefer adventure?”
“One hundred percent, I’d choose an adventure. No matter if it’s just a run or something bigger like hopping in the car for a spontaneous road trip, I’d prefer those any day over a bouquet. What’s your longest relationship?”
His eyes gleam golden green in the soft morning light. They crinkle at the edges as he smirks.
“What? It’s part of my fuckboy research. I need to know if Ivy’s dating a player. You’re not exactly a young man.”
“Six years. It ended last year, but honestly? I should have ended it way sooner.” He pulls his beanie off his head and runs a hand through his hair before pulling it down again, never losing his stride.
“I’m not a player. I… just have this bad habit of holding onto relationships longer than I should.
” He pauses. “I’m not scared of marriage. Just haven’t found the right person.”
“Is that why you’re dating Ivy? Looking for your forever person?” My breath hitches as I force the words out.
“Nope. It’s my turn.” He lets out a sharp exhale through puffed cheeks. “What made you decide on corporate law?”
“My parents were both lawyers. Their parents before them. You know, the whole carry-the-torch, family tradition thing. Corporate felt less personal. Companies, buying other companies, are far less messy than dealing with people and their problems.”
James stays quiet for a few minutes. Our sneakers scuff the pavement, the only sound apart from a winter bird’s cry slicing through the silence.
Then, softly, “You said were, not are. Have your parents passed away?”
“They died during my senior year of high school.”
The memories crash in: my dad’s car accident, and before I could even fly home, the call from my mother’s assistant telling me she was gone, too. The deep, dark hole that’s never left since those fateful calls opens again.
“What’s your biggest regret?” slips out before I can stop it.
James doesn’t flinch. His footfalls don’t falter. “That I didn’t step in sooner to stop my dad from hitting my mom.”
His honesty stops me cold. I stand in the middle of the road. Tears well in my eyes, and I fight to keep them in. Well, fuck. I was... ignored. He had to live with that. James keeps his eyes on me, steady and unflinching, waiting to see my reaction.
“Wow. Okay.” I clear my throat, trying to steady myself. “Hard truths it is. Do you… want to talk about it?”
“Nah. Not right now. Come on, let’s keep going.”
We let the silence wrap around us, turning over the weight of his words.
This man—his care, his understanding, the quiet way he’s moved through the past few days—it all makes sense. What kind of boy must he have been, so scared, and still brave enough to try to protect his mom?
“My turn.” He clears his throat. “What’s something you’ve never told Mason?”
Yesterday, when we sat beside each other and gave the barest hints of these hurts, I wanted so badly to lean into him, into the way he listens. And he didn’t just listen, he got it. Now I know why.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the bitter air, and instead of deflecting, I see how it feels to speak the truth. “I’ve never told him the full extent of the neglect I experienced growing up. No one ever hit me, but… I’ve never admitted how crushingly lonely I was.”
His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t rush to fill the silence with empty reassurances. Instead, he asks, “What do you mean?”
“My parents didn’t have room for me in their lives.
Nannies raised me until I went off to school.
And I know how privileged it sounds to complain about not getting enough time with Mommy and Daddy.
I was nothing more than a trophy. Something brought out during dinner parties to charm their friends, tucked away again the moment I became inconvenient.
Honestly, my life didn’t change much after they died. ”
He stays quiet, giving me space, letting me decide whether to go on.
The path curves around a stand of pines. Instead of heading toward town, I follow the trail, and we come to a covered bridge. Icicles hang from the eaves, scattering prisms of light around the entrance.
“I love this place.” I slow to a stop at the bridge’s entrance.
James steps forward, his eyes widening as he takes in the structure. “This is incredible.” He moves closer to examine the joinery. “These builders understood how forces work together. They knew that in certain configurations, pressure actually strengthens the connection rather than weakens it.”
I place my hand on the beam, feeling the grain of the wood, the strength that’s held for generations.
“How old is it?” he asks.
“Built in 1875, according to the plaque.”
“A hundred and fifty years, and it’s still standing.” He pulls off his mitten to run a hand along the beam. “This isn’t just construction. It’s art. A testament to what people can create when they build with purpose. To make something that lasts, that connects one place to another.”
Standing here on this bridge, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Not at the law firm. Not back at the cabin. Not running alone on some distant trail. Just standing here, listening to this man talk about a bridge like a prayer I’d long forgotten how to say.
This is what Jules’s question was about and what I’ve been reaching for all these months. There is no need to pretend or search. Because it’s written in every glance, every conversation turned confession, every instinct that urges me to share more. It’s a connection that exists without even trying.
My stomach turns, and I catch myself against the bridge. Oh yeah. The purpose of the run.
The jarring reality of what I have to do rushes back. I close my eyes, pushing it down to the abyss. But it hovers right there, on the tip of my tongue, behind the tears threatening to spill. It won’t be tucked away, as if my body is saying, ‘Be brave and ask for what you want.’
“Sydney?”
“The pharmacy is a few minutes ahead.” I take off without looking back.
James stays a few paces behind as we continue into town, giving me the space I need.
My hands won’t stop shaking, and the flickering fluorescent lights in the pharmacy, straight out of a horror movie, don’t help. My trembling fingers grab what I need. The boxes go into the bathroom trash; the tests are buried deep in my coat pocket.
The sun makes an appearance when I step outside, and I stretch my face toward the soft, warm light.
My eyes flutter closed, absorbing it the way a plant gathers energy.
When I find James, he’s leaning against the building, looking at me in a way that makes me feel naked, like he’s reading every thought racing through my mind.
A scream wants to break free. But instead, I say, “Race you back!”
I don’t wait for a response. My shoes kick up snow, pulse pounding with something that has nothing to do with the cold.