Chapter 34 #2
I took another step. Close enough now that I could see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat. “You broke into my trailer,” I said. It wasn’t a question. “You sat at my table, opened my laptop, and erased my podcast. While I was out. While I was trusting that my own home was still mine.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “I—”
“Admit it.”
Silence stretched, brittle. Then, quietly, “Yeah. I did.”
Ripples of nausea rolled through me.
“I was trying to protect Whitaker,” he said, voice cracking. “And you,” he added as an afterthought. “We hired someone to find out who the podcast belonged to. He didn’t want people talking. I thought if I could just get rid of that episode, in case you decided to post it again—”
“You thought you could erase me,” I cut in.
He flinched. “No. I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you back home with me. These people don’t play fair, Becca, you have no idea—”
“Bullshit,” I snapped, “If you were really worried, you could have just talked to me. Or Matt, remember him? The cop. Oh my god, you left the comments too, didn’t you? And were you the one driving through the campground at all hours scaring Aggie?”
“Was I checking on you? Yes, I was. I had to make sure they weren’t watching you—”
“You idiot! I was so scared. You scared me. It was all you.”
“If you were so scared, why didn’t you come home? Damn it, Becca!”
“Stop! You’re impossible. You know I was in Aggie’s trailer tonight.
” The words scraped out of my throat. “I went back in for Gerald. The smoke was so thick I tasted it in my lungs, felt it coating my tongue. I couldn’t see the door.
I thought—” My voice cracked for the first time, just a hairline fracture.
I swallowed it down. “I thought we were going to die in there.”
His eyes darted to the side, then back. “I didn’t set the fire on purpose.”
My lip curled as I glared at him. “Explain.”
He exhaled, shaky. “I started smoking again. After us. Couldn’t stop.
I was outside the meeting, waiting to hear something for Whitaker, something I could use—he was under a lot of pressure.
He had a deal riding on this, a lot of money.
Anyway, I lit one at Aggie’s trailer. Then Eileen saw me through the window, so I ran off.
I also, um, I parked on the main road and snuck in, I smoked all the way to Aggie’s trailer and flicked them all.
I don’t know where they went. It was stupid, I know.
” His voice broke. “I panicked. I took off and kept driving. I didn’t mean to start a fire.
I swear. I would never want you to get hurt.
I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I swear it, Becca. You have to believe me.”
I stared at him. The man who once made me question my own sanity now sat there, pale and sweating, trying to explain away burning down Aggie’s home with a bunch of flicked cigarettes and self-induced panic.
An ugly, bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “You flicked cigarettes and nearly killed Gerald. Nearly killed me. You selfish, thoughtless, prick.”
His shoulders jerked as if I’d hit him.
“You’re pathetic,” I said. The word came out quiet, venomous, and final. “Instead of warning me, you made sure I stayed scared, hoping I’d go back to you. I hate you. Never speak to me again. I’m done for good. I can’t stand the sight of you.”
He recoiled, chair scraping an inch backward. His eyes went glassy, red-rimmed. For one sick second, I saw the boy he used to be before he learned how to weaponize charm and doubt. Then it was gone, and all that was left was a man crumbling in a folding chair.
“For years,” I said, stepping closer until my shadow fell across his lap, “I told myself the problem was me. I was too sensitive. Too much. Too quick to take things wrong. You were so good at making me believe it—explaining why my hurt wasn’t real, why my anger was hysterical, why every boundary I set was just me being dramatic.
I got so good at swallowing it I stopped tasting the poison. ”
My hands were shaking now, and I clenched them so hard that my nails bit into my palms. “Turns out I wasn’t too sensitive. I was just the only one in the room who could still feel anything.”
“Becca.” His voice was barely a rasp. He lifted a hand—reaching, placating—then let it drop when he saw my face. “I’m sorry. I know I—”
“I’m not here for sorry.” I leaned in until I could see the sweat beading along his hairline, smell the fear rolling off him in waves.
“I’m here because for months you kept coming back.
My door. My job. My trailer. My campground.
Every time you took another piece of me—my sleep, my safety, the air I needed to exist without checking every shadow.
Why, Travis? We loved each other once. We grew up together.
Why would you do that to me? How could you? ”
He didn’t answer. His chest heaved. Eyes flicking to the door like he wanted to escape.
“So listen carefully,” I said, each syllable deliberate, “because I’m only saying this once, and there will be no version of this night you can rewrite in your head later, it is over. And I am done dealing with one more second of your bullshit. You messed up. This is all on you.”
The room was dead quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock and his uneven breathing.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. Then, barely audible: “I know.”
“Louder.”
“I know.” The words tore out of him, cracked and raw. “I know.”
I held his gaze until he looked away first.
“Tonight you sit here realizing what you’ve lost,” I said. “Not because I screamed. Not because I cried. Because I looked you in the eye and named every ugly thing you did, and you finally ran out of places to hide from it.”
His head dropped. Shoulders folded in. A sound escaped him—half sob, half choke. I waited until the silence swallowed him whole. Then I turned for the door.
“For what it’s worth,” he rasped behind me.
I stopped. Hand on the knob. Didn’t turn.
“You were never too much,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The metal bit into my palm. “I will never forgive you. For any of it,” I bit out. “But I am going to forgive myself for putting up with it for so long.” I opened the door and walked out.
Matt was still in the hall, arms crossed, back to the wall. He studied my face, and whatever he saw there made him exhale, shoulders easing.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I meant it. “Yeah, actually.”
He nodded once. Pushed off the wall.
“I want to go back to your place,” I said. Home was still too tangled a word tonight. “I need to wait for Levi.”
Matt didn’t argue. “I’ll drive you.”
The ride back was quiet, the headlights carving tunnels through the smoke-hazed road. Levi’s truck wasn’t there yet.
Matt killed the engine. “I heard from the fire chief while you were talking to Travis. They’re still out there wrapping things up. Levi is okay. They all are. No injuries.”
I nodded, throat tight again for a different reason.
Matt reached over and pulled me into a quick hug. “Go inside. Call if you need me. It’ll be over soon, yeah?”
I got out, climbed the steps, and unlocked the door. The house wrapped around me like an old blanket, familiar and warm, but the comfort felt fragile, like it could tear if I breathed too hard.
I kicked off my shoes by the door and padded into the kitchen in my socks. The coffee pot was still warm. I poured another cup I didn’t want, just to have something to hold. My fingers were cold. The mug was warm against my palms, but I barely felt it.
In the living room, I sank onto the couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them as if I could keep myself from flying apart.
I stared out the front window, willing Levi to show up soon.
The glass was cold against my temple when I leaned closer to the window.
My breath fogged it in uneven bursts—too fast, too shallow—leaving little clouds that shrank and vanished before the next one arrived.
The clock on the mantel ticked. Not steadily anymore, but in slow, deliberate stabs that counted the seconds between my heartbeats.
Every tick felt like a small hammer behind my left eye.
My pulse thrummed in my ears, loud enough to drown the fire for moments at a time, then receded so the room felt suddenly too quiet.
What if the fire had flared up again on the back roads? What if Whitaker or whoever had one last play? What if Levi—quiet, careful Levi—had finally pushed too far and something had gone wrong? The thoughts clawed up my throat, tasting like ash and copper. I swallowed hard, but the taste stayed.
Still no headlights. No crunch of gravel. No engine rumble cutting through the quiet.
I turned fully to the window, pressed both palms flat to the glass.
The chill seeped into my skin, up my arms, into my chest, until it felt like ice was spreading under my ribs.
My reflection stared back—eyes wide and glassy, mouth parted, hair still damp at the ends from the shower.
I looked like someone who had been running for hours and still hadn’t found the finish line.
Outside, the day pressed against the pane, as if it wanted in. Wind rattled the porch screen, a soft, impatient sound. My breath hitched. I stayed there, forehead to the cold glass, palms flat, breath fogging and clearing in frantic little pulses.
Every sound—the tick of the clock, the distant creak of the house settling—felt like a promise or a warning. I couldn’t tell which.
Time stretched on until the tension in my chest felt like it might snap clean through.