9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
AVA
L ast night, I told Jackson I was ready to go back to my old apartment and get the rest of my things.
But now that it’s almost time, my stomach has other ideas.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around a mug I haven’t taken a sip from in ten minutes. The tea’s gone lukewarm, but I don’t move. My back is too rigid, my shoulders too tense.
It’s like if I hold myself still enough, the dread won’t catch up.
Even though it’s been less than a week since the wedding, the idea of going back to the apartment I shared with Brad already feels like a different lifetime.
But my things are still there. Books I’ve had since college. Notebooks filled with scribbled ideas for Open Pages. My car.
Pieces of my life I need to get back to move forward.
I stare out the window at the tree branches blowing in the wind.
Please don’t let Brad be home.
A soft knock breaks the silence.
“Come in,” I call, and my voice cracks slightly.
Miss Taylor pokes her head in, holding a mug in one hand.
“I thought you might need a new cup,” she says gently. “Chamomile.”
She steps in, sets it gently on the nightstand, and takes my long cold mug. “If you need anything, let me know. It’s pretty quiet until I pick up the kiddos.”
“Thank you, Miss Taylor.”
She nods once, then slips back out and closes the door behind her.
After she leaves, I sit for another minute, gathering myself and sipping tea.
By the time Jackson walks through the door, I’m already waiting by the stairs. His gym bag is slung over one shoulder, hair still tousled from the locker room shower.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just studies me, his eyes scanning mine like he’s checking in.
“You sure?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I admit. “But I need to do it.”
A short nod, and that’s all it takes. We walk out together, silence stretching between us like thread. Taut, but holding.
Jackson doesn’t say much on the drive, just follows the directions from my phone with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easily in his lap. The silence isn’t awkward. It feels intentional. Like he knows I’m holding myself together and doesn’t want to risk knocking anything loose.
As we get closer, every moment tightens the knot in my chest. I grip the edge of my seat as we turn down the street I used to call home.
Jackson slows in front of the building. Third floor, corner unit. The one Brad insisted was “more convenient.” Closer to the city. Closer to his work.
Never mind that I’d loved the little rental house I had before. The one with the wraparound porch and light that poured in through every window. This had been more practical, he’d said. And because I worked remote, the compromise fell to me.
My blood goes cold when we pull into the lot and I see Brad’s car parked out front.
Of course he’s here.
Jackson throws the truck in park and turns to me.
“Ready?”
Not even close. But I nod. “Let’s just get it over with.”
The building hasn’t changed. Same chipped brick, same dull gray door buzzer. As we climb the stairs, every step feels heavier than the last. By the time we reach the landing, I’m practically holding my breath.
Instead of unlocking the door and barging in, I decide to knock.
A few seconds pass, then the door swings open.
Brad’s face appears, and for a second, he looks startled. Then relieved. Like I’ve just come home.
“Ava,” he breathes. “God, I was starting to think…”
Then his eyes shift.
Land on Jackson.
And just like that, the expression changes. The open hope flickers into something guarded. His jaw twitches.
“I came to get the rest of my things,” I announce, before he can start whatever speech he’s been rehearsing.
Brad’s eyes cut back to me. “Come in.”
He steps aside. Jackson moves to follow, but Brad holds up a hand.
“Not you.”
Then, before I can respond, Brad turns to me with a stiff smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“He doesn’t need to be here. It’s just you and me, Ava. This is our place.”
Not anymore.
I lift my chin. “He’s with me.”
Brad’s fake smile hardens. “I’m not looking for a fight. He can wait outside. You don’t need him to babysit you.”
Before I can answer, Jackson speaks. His voice is calm, steady. “I’m not here to cause trouble. Just here to help.”
His voice is so even it throws Brad off balance for a beat, but he still doesn’t budge.
“Just give us a minute,” I murmur to Jackson, and he nods once, stepping back.
I slip inside and close the door behind me.
There’s a half-finished mug of coffee on the counter, and my stomach knots when I spot one of our engagement photos still propped on the shelf near the door.
I freeze. Not out of sadness, but disbelief.
Why is that still here?
I don’t touch it. Don’t even look at it for long. Just keep moving, fighting the sudden urge to knock it off the shelf and watch it shatter.
Brad runs a hand through his hair. “You look… good.”
I don’t answer. I move past him.
I know exactly what I came for. And I want to get out of here as fast as possible.
I move quickly at first. Straight to the hallway closet where I’d left a few extra coats, the rolling duffel I used for conferences, a tote full of books I hadn’t been able to part with. It’s easier to stay focused when I keep my back to him. When I don’t make eye contact.
Brad hovers near the kitchen, arms crossed, watching me like I’m going to vanish again.
“I still can’t believe you left like that,” he says quietly. “Didn’t even say goodbye.”
I don’t respond.
“You could’ve talked to me, Ava. I deserved that.”
I whirl, finally meeting his eyes.
“What I deserved was honesty. And maybe if I’d gotten that from you, I wouldn’t have had to find out about the affair on our wedding day.”
He flinches. Barely, but it’s there. “I‘ve been trying to tell you. It didn’t mean anything.”
“You are only saying that because you got caught,” I snap. “After the lies. After the cover-ups. After I ran from my own wedding like an idiot.”
Brad sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. “I panicked. Everything was happening so fast. We were planning a wedding and I—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off. “You don’t get to rewrite this. You didn’t panic. You cheated. Repeatedly. And then you let me build a life on top of it like none of it mattered.”
He goes quiet at that. Good. Maybe now I can finish this.
I step into the bedroom. It’s neater than I expected, as if he tried to make it presentable.
I kneel down and drag a large plastic tote from the closet floor, then start filling it with the few things I actually care about.
The framed photo of my parents. A couple of worn paperbacks with cracked spines. A folder labeled Open Pages with my earliest sketches and scribbled ideas before my nonprofit became real.
My hands feel steady as I fill it with the things that matter. I realize that this is me taking control. This is me walking away from a man who never deserved me.
Out in the hallway, Brad tries again. “You don’t have to be like this. We can talk. Work it out.”
The desperation in his voice crawls under my skin. I keep my back to him.
“I love you, Ava.”
I grip the tote so hard it hurts, but I don’t say anything. I walk back into the main room, arms full of what I came for.
Tension knots between my shoulders, tight as a vise.
“I can help you carry that,” he offers, voice soft.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
A pause. Then, he murmurs, “You don’t have to act like I never mattered.”
My fingers lock around the handles. The comment isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s calculated guilt.
I set the bag down carefully on the bench by the door and don’t answer.
Instead, I pivot. “I need my grandma’s quilt. It’s not in the bedroom, is it?”
He hesitates. “No. It’s in the attic.”
Of course.
I exhale, already knowing this isn’t going to go smoothly.
“Can you pull it down?”
“I would,” he says, crossing his arms, “but I can’t reach the cord, and I don’t know where the stepstool is.”
I stare at him. “Seriously?”
“It’s no big deal,” he says with a shrug. “I can get a new one and you can come back later.”
I give a strained smile. “Or I can see if Jackson can reach the cord.”
Brad’s jaw clenches. “You don’t need him for this.”
“I do,” I say evenly. “And I want him here.”
He smooths a hand down the front of his shirt like it might help him stay in control.
“You can come back in a few days when I’ve got a new one. We can… talk then too.”
That quiet dread I’d been managing all day spikes sharp in my chest.
Talk then too?
As if I’m not clearly leaving him.
And without waiting for his response, I turn and walk to the front door.
Time to let Jackson in.
When I open it, Jackson’s standing there: arms folded, gaze steady, like he’s been waiting for the cue.
The second he sees my face, he straightens.
“I need your help,” I say, stepping aside to let him in.
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t ask questions. Just follows me inside.
Brad appears a second later. “You’re really bringing him in here?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Jackson stands beside me without a word, his presence a calm wall of quiet strength. I can feel the shift in the air. Charged, unspoken. Brad definitely feels it too. I see it in the hardening of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes.
“Could you help with the attic cord?” I ask.
Jackson nods. “Lead the way.”
We walk down the hallway, the tension thick enough to taste. Jackson moves with steady purpose, stopping beneath the low ceiling. One easy stretch and he pulls the cord. The wood creaks as the attic ladder unfolds.
I glance at Brad. “Where’s my luggage? The big gray one I packed for the honeymoon.”
He hesitates. “Maybe it got mixed up when Jenna came by. Or… maybe it’s in the closet somewhere.”
My spine goes rigid. He’s lying. I can feel it.
But I don’t take the bait. Instead, I nod once, more to myself than to him, and grit my teeth.
“I’m going up to get my grandma’s quilt,” I say, already turning toward the attic.
Jackson holds the ladder steady as I climb. The attic is dim and dusty, filled with boxes and forgotten furniture. But after a few moments, I spot it. The quilt is shoved on top of an old trunk, folded neatly inside a plastic bag.
Below me, I can hear their voices. Low and tense. Jackson’s calm voice. Brad’s clipped replies. A few beats of silence. Then more of it, quieter now. Still weighted.
I sling the quilt over my shoulder and climb down slowly, the ladder creaking beneath me. When my shoes hit the floor, I look up.
Brad’s face is flushed, his jaw set. Jackson, by contrast, stands tall and composed. He’s steady in that quiet, unwavering way that somehow says everything without him even speaking.
I don’t ask what happened. Just nod at Jackson and gesture toward the door.
“I’ve got everything.”
We move together without speaking. Jackson grabs the tote and tucks it under one arm. For a second, I almost believe we’ll get out clean.
But then Brad follows us to the door.
“I’m not giving up on us,” he murmurs.
I stop, hand on the knob. My stomach clenches with dread.
Of course, he thinks this isn’t over.
Of course, he believes I’m still his.
I know he’ll keep pushing. Unless I give him a reason to stop.
I turn slowly and meet his eyes. Before I can second-guess myself, I balance the quilt carefully on one arm and reach for Jackson’s hand.
It’s warm. Solid. No hesitation.
Brad’s eyes drop to our joined hands, and his mouth hardens into something bitter. I don’t look away. I don’t let go.
“I’ve moved on,” I say quietly. “You should too.”
Brad’s eye bulge out of his head, his veins popping on his neck. He grips the door so forcefully that I wouldn’t be surprised if he leaves nail marks.
Through it all, Jackson doesn’t miss a beat. He squeezes my hand once, then walks with me out the door like we’ve been together for years.
“ This isn’t over .”
Laced with fury, Brad’s words land behind us like a stone. But I don’t stop. I don’t look back.
We don’t speak again until we reach my car. I unlock the trunk, my fingers shaking slightly, and Jackson helps me load everything in.
Immediately after, I take out my phone and block Brad before he has time to call or text me.
My hand doesn't even shake. It feels right, final.
“I’ll follow you back,” I say, glancing towards his truck.
Jackson suddenly grins, a spark in his eyes. “We’re not going back to the house just yet. We’ve got one stop to make first.”
I blink. “Where?”
He walks to his truck, then glances over his shoulder, that spark still in his eyes.
“Follow me.”