Chapter 9 #2
More than that, it reminds me that their connection predates ours. That when this temporary arrangement ends, Kelsie returns to her real life with information about me I can't retract. With stories she could share with her brother, comparing his professional insights with her personal experiences.
The thought makes me physically ill.
Hours pass, the house quiet except for occasional footsteps upstairs. Around eight, I hear Kelsie in the kitchen but make no move to join her. The smell of something cooking wafts under my office door, but hunger is the furthest thing from my mind.
My phone buzzes with a text from Savannah.
Savannah: Just checking that we're still on for Christmas planning this weekend? Colt's excited to hear your ideas for the dinner.
Christmas. Another holiday to endure. Another performance of normalcy for my daughter's sake.
Me: I'll be there.
I reply, though nothing feels certain right now.
Another hour passes before a soft knock interrupts my brooding. I don't answer, but the door opens anyway, revealing Kelsie with a plate in hand.
"I made dinner," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "Thought you might be hungry."
"I'm fine." The coolness in my tone contradicts the statement.
She sets the plate on my desk anyway. "You need to eat."
"I don't need you taking care of me," I snap, immediately regretting the harshness.
Her face closes off completely. "Fine. Starve if that's what you want."
She turns to leave, then pauses at the doorway. "For the record, I've never discussed your therapy with Mason. Not once. And I'm hurt that you would think I'd violate your privacy that way."
"Then why did he tell you to be careful with my heart?" The question still burns, needing an answer.
"Because he's my brother and he cares about both of us." She sighs, shoulders slumping. "And maybe because I've been hurt too, Tom. Have you ever thought of that? Maybe he's worried about us both getting in too deep too fast."
The simple explanation cuts through some of my paranoia, but pride keeps me from acknowledging it. "Whatever helps you sleep tonight."
Her eyes flash with renewed anger. "You know what? I think I'll sleep in the guest room tonight. Give us both some space to cool off."
The prospect of sleeping alone after experiencing the comfort of her presence hits harder than expected. "If that's what you want."
"It's not about what I want." Her voice catches. "It's about what we both seem to need right now. Some distance to figure out if this is worth pursuing or if we're just setting ourselves up for more pain."
Silence settles between us, neither willing to be the first to offer reassurance. Finally, she speaks again, her voice quieter.
"I've spent three years being made to feel like I couldn't be trusted. Like my words and intentions were always suspect. I won't go back to that, Tom. Not even for you."
She closes the door before I can respond, her footsteps retreating upstairs. I sit motionless, her words echoing in my mind.
The parallel hadn't occurred to me, how my suspicion might trigger memories of her ex husband's controlling behavior. How my accusation might feel like a continuation of the emotional manipulation she'd finally escaped.
Shame washes over me, followed by the familiar urge to retreat further into isolation. It's easier than risking vulnerability again. Easier than admitting I overreacted because I'm terrified of how quickly she's become important to me.
I stare at the plate she brought, a simple gesture of care despite our argument. Something in my chest constricts painfully. I've ruined what started as a perfect day with suspicion born of my own insecurities.
Upstairs, a door closes firmly. The guest room door. Evidence that my walls have successfully pushed away yet another person who tried to get close.
This is what I do. What I've always done. Keep people at a distance where they can't hurt me. Where their inevitable departure can't shatter what remains of my heart.
Except Kelsie isn't Caroline. She didn't choose to be here initially, but she's chosen to stay every day since. Chosen to see beyond my gruff exterior. Chosen to share her creativity, her body, her vulnerability with me.
And how have I repaid that trust? With accusations and suspicion at the first hint that she might know more about me than I've personally revealed.
I push the plate away, appetite completely gone. But the food sits there, a silent rebuke. Even angry, she still cared enough to bring me dinner. The simple act of kindness compared to my baseless accusations makes shame burn through me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm on my feet and heading upstairs. This pattern of pushing people away has cost me too much already. I won't lose her without at least trying to make this right.
Outside the guest room, I hesitate. The light shines beneath the door, and I can hear the soft clicking of keyboard keys. She's writing, probably channeling her hurt into her work. I almost turn away, not wanting to interrupt, but force myself to knock softly.
The typing stops. Silence stretches across the door that might as well be a wall.
"Kelsie," I say quietly. "Can we talk?"
More silence. Then the soft pad of footsteps before the door opens. She stands there in pajama pants and an oversized t shirt, glasses perched on her nose, hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her eyes are slightly red, whether from crying or staring at her screen too long, I can't tell.
"What is it, Tom?" Her voice is flat, guarded in a way I haven't heard before.
"I was wrong." The words come easier than expected. "I jumped to conclusions and accused you of something I know deep down you wouldn't do."
She crosses her arms, neither accepting nor rejecting my apology. "Why?"
The question is simple but cuts to the heart of everything. Why indeed? The truth feels raw and exposing, but she deserves nothing less.
"Because it's easier to push you away first than risk you leaving later." I run a hand through my hair. "Because what's happening between us terrifies me."
Something softens in her expression, but she doesn't move from the doorway. "You hurt me."
"I know. And I'm sorry." I take a step toward her, stopping when she doesn't mirror the movement. "I've spent sixteen years keeping everyone at arm's length. It's become instinct to look for reasons to retreat."
"I understand instinct," she says, her voice gentler but still resolute. "But I can't be with someone who doesn't trust me. Who jumps to the worst conclusions about my character based on nothing."
"I do trust you." The words feel inadequate even as I say them. "I just panicked. The thought of you and Mason discussing me..."
"Mason never betrayed your confidence." She looks me directly in the eyes. "And I never asked him to. I would never do that to you."
"I believe you." I take another tentative step forward. "Please, Kelsie. I'm not good at this. At being vulnerable. At letting someone in. But I want to try. With you."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see the conflict in her eyes. The desire to believe me warring with the need to protect herself.
"I need some time," she finally says. "Space to think about what I want. What we both want. This has all happened so fast, and today showed me we're both carrying more baggage than we realized."
The request stings, but I recognize its fairness. "Of course. Whatever you need."
"I'm not saying no," she clarifies, her voice softening further. "I'm just saying I need to be sure this is something we can work through. That it won't happen again the next time you feel threatened or exposed."
I nod, forcing myself to respect the boundary she's setting even as everything in me wants to pull her into my arms. "Take as much time as you need. I'll be here when you're ready to talk."
A small, sad smile touches her lips. "Thank you. Goodnight, Tom."
"Goodnight, Kelsie."
The door closes again, quieter this time. I stand there longer than I should, hoping she might change her mind, but the light beneath the door remains steady, and eventually I hear the typing resume.
As I head back downstairs, the house feels emptier than it has in days, despite her continued presence under its roof.
But beneath the ache of separation is a glimmer of something else.
Hope, perhaps. That her request for time means she sees something worth salvaging.
That my apology, however inadequate, was a step in the right direction.
I've spent sixteen years walling off my heart. It will take more than one conversation to convince her—to convince us both—that I'm capable of something different. But for the first time since Caroline left, I want to try.
For Kelsie. For the possibility of us. For the chance that what began as a broken cabin heater might lead to something neither of us expected to find again.
Tomorrow will be awkward. Painful, even. But it will come, and with it, another opportunity to prove I can be more than my past. More than my fears.
Whether Kelsie decides to take another chance on me or not, I owe her that much. I owe myself that much too.