41. 41
Hold On – Chord Overstreet
Break My Heart – Matt Hansen
J oseph practically force-fed me pancakes, shoving the plate in my face until I gave in.
I ate, begrudgingly, and I’ll admit, they weren’t half bad. Kid’s got potential. Even if Harrison did all the work.
It’s midday, the kids are down for their nap, and I’m slouched on the couch with Imogen and Harrison, a mug of coffee cooling in my hands.
We’ve been going back over everything Imogen told me earlier—about the threats, the supposed footage, and the message demanding she come back or I’ll be the one facing jail time.
I can feel the anger burning deep in my chest, and it’s not just at Zoe.
“She could have told me,” I say again, because that’s the part that won’t leave me alone. My jaw flexes. “And now she’s there on her own. With that fucking piece of shit.”
“She isn’t alone,” Imogen says, leaning forward a little. “She has her best friend, her lawyer. She’s in safe hands.”
“That doesn’t fucking matter. She shouldn’t have gone. She should have told me.” The words are sharper this time, through gritted teeth.
“And what would you have done?” she asks, her head tilting. “Talked her out of going? Gone with her?”
I think about it, and yeah, probably.
Imogen huffs a small laugh. “That’s exactly why she didn’t.
And that’s exactly what she wrote, isn’t it?
You Price brothers are too stubborn for your own good.
It’s both a blessing and incredibly annoying.
” She rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t cut through the weight in my chest. I can’t find it in me to laugh, but she’s right.
I let out a slow breath, my voice rough.
“I just need… to know she’s safe.” My throat tightens, and I hate how it sounds.
“She’s a strong woman. You know this, Mikey. Just give her time.”
“How much time?” I smack my hands against my knees.
“This is so fucked. My fucking chest hurts.” I rub the spot, trying to knead out the ache.
“I can’t get rid of it. I’ve been feeling it all morning.
Last night—” I shake my head, embarrassed to even be saying it out loud.
“Last night it felt… different. I don’t know how to explain it. And now it fucking hurts.”
I bow my head forward, pinching the bridge of my nose, willing the burn in my eyes to back off.
Imogen’s voice is quiet but steady when she says, “That’s love.” And it truly fucking rocks me. “You love her,” she adds, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
Before I can say anything, Harrison leans forward, clapping a hand against my shoulder. “Mate, you’ve got it bad,” he says with a grin that’s softer than usual. “I mean, I’m proud, but also, this is hilarious. Didn’t think I’d see the day my little brother turned into a lovesick idiot.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite everything. “She better fucking come home,” I mutter.
“Then tell her that,” Harrison says simply.
I pull my phone out and type a message—short, blunt, all I can manage without letting more spill out.
Me: You better be safe.
Me: We need to talk when you come home.
Even if she doesn’t reply, at least I’ve said it.
“Pass the mint sauce, will you?” Mum’s voice carries over the clink of cutlery and the low hum of the oven fan.
It’s just after seven, and I’m having dinner with her and Joe.
The table’s already set, roast lamb taking pride of place in the centre, the smell of it filling every corner of the house.
I keep the conversation easy, steering it away from anything heavy.
I tell her work’s been steady, the shop’s ticking over fine, the race is still on my radar, and that we’re all good.
She gives me a pointed look, the kind that makes it clear she’s not just talking about the job. I know exactly what Harrison’s been saying to her—how I’ve been “distracted,” maybe “too wrapped up” in someone.
So I reach across, cover her hand with mine, and say, “We’re good, Mum. Don’t listen to everything Harrison tells you. He worries too much.”
The lines around her eyes ease. “That’s all I need to hear.”
When dinner’s over, I get up to take my plate to the kitchen, and before I go, I lean down, kiss the top of Mum’s head, and wrap her in a quick hug.
She smells like rosemary and laundry powder, a scent that hits differently now than it did when I was younger.
Now it’s a comfort I didn’t realise I’d been missing.
Halfway through clearing the table, she catches me with that knowing stare. “You gonna tell us about this girl you’ve been spending all your time with?”
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know about her?”
“Oh, your brother told me.” She crosses her arms. “Well, Imogen did.”
Of course she did.
“She’s not a girl,” I correct her, shaking my head with a small smile. “She’s all woman.”
Her eyebrows lift, the smile tugging wider at her mouth. “Sounds serious.”
I smirk. “Something like that.” And what an understatement that is. It’s more than that. So much more. I just wish she were here, because I don’t know how much longer I can take not seeing her.
“You like her.” It’s not a question.
I huff a quiet laugh, but the truth lodges heavy in my chest. I don’t just like her.
I love her.
I fucking love her .
We finish up, and I’m about to head back to my flat when my phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Jono from work.
Jono: You keen for a hang?
I don’t even have to guess—it means a couple of beers and a joint or two, the same routine we’ve had for a while now. But I haven’t touched that shit in months. Not since Zoe. And now cigarettes.
Me: I’ll come for a hang. Maybe a beer. No doob for me.
I pocket the phone, throw my jacket on, and tell Mum I’ll see her soon. I grab my helmet and keys, the cool night air cutting through my leather jacket as I step outside. The Ducati growls to life under me, that familiar vibration settling in my bones.
Before I take off, I hover over Zoe’s name on my phone, staring at a photo of the two of us in bed—a selfie she took one night—her hair messy, my arm thrown around her.
It makes me smile, and I press the call button, holding the phone to my ear. It rings once, twice, before going straight to voicemail.
Figures.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, shake my head, and roll out onto the street, the cool night air biting against my skin.
The streets are dead, just me and the low hum of the engine.
My head drifts whether I want it to or not.
I wonder where she is, if she’s truly safe, if she’s even thinking about me.
Usually, there are a hundred things running through my mind when I ride, but not tonight.
Tonight, it’s just her. That stubborn smirk.
That laugh that gets under my skin and sits there, like it doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. I make a turn onto a main road.
They say when your life flashes before your eyes, it happens in an instant. I’ve never really thought about it before, never believed in the cliché. But as I lean into the next bend, I swear it happens—even if it’s just for a second.
Her face.
Clear as day.