Chapter 13 #2
“I know.” I sighed. “It’s complicated. He was part of.
.. a motorcycle club. Not just a member—the president.
It came with a whole lifestyle, a whole set of expectations.
There were women who hung around the club, available to anyone who wanted them.
It was considered normal for the men to sleep with them, even if they had girlfriends or wives. ”
“Jesus.” Emma’s eyes went wide. “And you put up with that?”
“I didn’t know.” The shame of it still burned, even after all the time that had passed. “He was always respectful around me. Never touched another woman in front of me. I thought I was special. Until I walked in on him fucking another woman.” I laughed bitterly. “I was just naive.”
“You weren’t naive. You were trusting someone who didn’t deserve it. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Emma reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Indira. He lied to you. He hid who he really was. That’s on him, not you.”
I nodded, but the guilt still lingered. All those signs I’d ignored. All those moments when something had felt off and I’d talked myself out of my own instincts.
“The thing is,” I said slowly, “I saw him. A few weeks ago, in Montana.”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “What? When? How?”
“Jessica’s bachelorette trip. Remember how we went to that bar in Whitefish after we spent the day skiing?” Emma nodded. “He was there.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. We just... saw each other. Made eye contact a few times.” I paused, remembering the weight of his gaze across the crowded bar.
“But something happened that I can’t stop thinking about.
These two women approached him—the kind of groupies I was telling you about.
They were all over him, touching him, obviously offering. .. well. You know.”
“And?”
“He walked away. Turned them down flat and walked away.”
Emma was quiet for a moment, processing this. “Well, damn.”
“It is. The Dutch I’d built up in my head after catching him with Crystal—that version of him would never turn down available women.
It was like breathing to him.” I took a sip of my latte, which had gone cold while we talked.
“Seeing him reject them like that... it messed with my head. And now this letter, saying all the things I never thought he’d say. ..”
“You’re wondering if he’s actually changed.”
“I’m wondering if I’m an idiot for even considering the possibility.”
Emma leaned back in her chair. “People can change, Indira.”
“Can they? Really?” I turned the letter over in my hands. “Or do they just get better at saying what you want to hear?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I stared at her. “You think I should respond?”
“I think you should do whatever feels right to you. But...” She paused, choosing her words carefully.
“You’ve been seeing Vaughn for a while now, and he’s great—I can tell you really like him.
But it seems like you’re both just having fun rather than any serious expectations. Unless I’m reading things wrong?”
“Vaughn makes me happy.”
“I know he does. And there’s nothing wrong with that.” She leaned forward. “But there’s also nothing wrong with getting closure, as long as it doesn’t come with letting someone back in who hurt you.”
“Dutch came with plenty of hurt.”
“The man you knew did. Maybe he’s different now.” Emma shrugged. “Or maybe he’s not. But you’ll never know unless you find out. And maybe you need to know. Maybe that’s the only way you’ll ever really move on.”
I wanted to argue with her, to point out all the reasons why responding would be stupid and dangerous and naive.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me in that Montana bar.
The way he’d walked away from those women without hesitation.
The way his eyes had followed me to the door, not possessive or demanding, but almost.. . hopeful.
“What would you do?” I asked.
“Honestly? I’d probably write back because I’d want to know what’s going on. But I’d set boundaries. Make it clear that a letter doesn’t erase what he did or entitle him to anything. That any communication is on my terms, not his. But that’s just me. You have to do what’s right for you.”
I nodded slowly, turning her words over in my mind.
“Just be careful,” Emma added. “You’ve come so far since you got here. I don’t want to see you get pulled back into something toxic.”
“I know.” I looked down at the letter, at Jacob’s signature at the bottom. “I know.”
We finished our coffee and talked about other things—Emma’s work drama, Sarah’s ongoing long distance saga with the ski instructor, Jessica’s wedding planning stress.
Normal friend stuff. The kind of conversation I’d never been able to have when I was with Dutch, because my whole social life had revolved around the club.
But underneath it all, the letter hummed in my purse like a living thing. Demanding attention. Demanding a response.
?
That night, I sat on my couch with a glass of wine and reread the letter for the dozenth time.
Outside my window, the lights of Music Row glittered like scattered stars.
My apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of someone playing guitar in the building next door.
I thought about Vaughn. About how easy things were with him. How uncomplicated.
I never worried about what he was doing when I wasn’t around.
Never wondered if there were other women.
Not because we’d made promises to each other but because I knew his story.
His wife had cheated on him, destroyed their marriage, and he’d told me over whiskey one night that infidelity was a line he’d never cross.
We were having fun, enjoying each other’s company without expectations or demands. It was exactly what we’d both needed—something light, something that couldn’t hurt us the way we’d been hurt before.
Vaughn was safe. Not because he’d promised me forever, but because we’d both agreed not to make promises at all. And because I knew, deep down, that even without promises, he wouldn’t betray me.
So why couldn’t I stop thinking about Dutch?
When you walked in on me with Crystal, I saw myself through your eyes for the first time. And I hated what I saw.
I wanted to believe it was just ego. Just my pride wanting validation.
But my finger kept tracing his signature. Jacob. He’d signed it Jacob.
I pulled out my laptop and opened a new email.
What did you say to someone who’d broken your heart and then apparently learned from it?
I stared at the blank screen for a long time. The cursor blinked at me, waiting.
Dear Dutch, I typed, then immediately deleted it. Too formal. Too distant.
Dutch, I tried again. Better. More personal without being intimate.
But what came next? What was I trying to say?
I wanted to tell him that his letter had meant something. That seeing his accountability, his self-awareness, had shifted something inside me. But I also wanted to protect myself. To make it clear that a well-written apology didn’t erase months of betrayal.
I thought about what Emma had said. Set boundaries. Make it clear that any communication is on your terms, not his.
I started typing again, then stopped. Deleted everything.
The truth was, I didn’t know what I wanted. Didn’t know if responding was the first step toward closure or the first step back into a world I’d fought so hard to escape.
I closed my laptop and set it aside. The email could wait. I needed time to think, time to process, time to figure out what I actually wanted to say—if anything.
But as I got ready for bed, brushing my teeth and washing my face and pulling on the oversized t-shirt I slept in, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. That the letter had cracked open a door I’d thought was sealed forever.
I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, Dutch’s words running through my head on an endless loop.
I hope you’re happy. I hope Nashville is everything you wanted it to be. I hope you’ve found someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated.
The thing was, I had found someone. Vaughn was good and kind and everything I’d thought I wanted. And I was happy—genuinely happy—for the first time in longer than I could remember.
So why did reading Dutch’s letter make me feel like something was still missing?
I pulled the letter out of my nightstand drawer and read it one more time.
Jacob.
I folded it and put it back in the drawer. Tomorrow I would think about whether to respond. Tonight, I would try to sleep.
But sleep didn’t come easily. And when it finally did, I dreamed of gray eyes and a voice calling me home.