11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
AVA
T he house is quiet.
Not tense, not heavy. Just… still. The kind of quiet that settles in your chest and makes you breathe a little slower without realizing it.
I pause at the top of the stairs, fingers grazing the banister, listening for signs of life. No cartoons, no stampeding footsteps. Just the low hum of the furnace and the soft creak of the hardwood under my feet.
It’s early, but I slept better last night than I have in a while.
When I step into the kitchen, light spills in across the tile, turning everything gold. My mind drifts to my conversation last night with Jackson. Talking with him about Open Pages was easy in a way that it never was with Brad.
Jackson didn’t just nod politely while checking his watch.
He actually listened . He asked questions. He looked at me like the things I was saying mattered.
It made me feel something I hadn’t in a long time. Understood. Like when I spend time with Jackson, I’m actually being seen.
I turn toward the counter, reaching for the coffee pot, but stop when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
It’s my brother, Greg.
I hesitate, thumb hovering. I haven’t talked to him since before I left the wedding almost a week ago.
“Hey, Greg.”
“You’re not back with him, right?”
No greeting. Just steel in his voice.
“Because if you are, I’m seriously worried. I told Jackson I’d give you space, but I had to say something about this.”
My heart pounds. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“Seen what?”
“Brad posted one of your engagement photos. The caption says something about you two working things out.”
My stomach drops as I press my hand to the counter to steady myself.
“I saw him yesterday.” My voice is flat. “When Jackson and I went to get the rest of my things.”
Greg lets out a clipped breath. “So, you’re not back with him.”
“No,” I say. “God, no.”
He exhales again, slower this time. “Okay.”
Then he says, “I’ve got to scrub in soon. But… I’m here, okay? You don’t have to go quiet on me. You need to talk about anything, just call.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. “Actually... there’s something I should probably tell you now.”
“Okay,” Greg says, wary.
“I think I know why Brad posted that photo,” I add, forcing the words out. “He saw me yesterday when I went to get my things from the apartment. And… I told him I was with Jackson.”
Silence.
“You what ?”
“It wasn’t planned,” I say quickly. “He was cornering me. Refusing to accept that we were over. Jackson was outside. I just…” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I panicked, and I said we were together so he’d back off.”
Another beat of silence.
“Greg?”
“I’m here,” he says finally. “Just thinking maybe I should’ve gone into law instead of medicine. Then I could draft a cease and desist. Maybe then he’d finally get the message that it’s over.”
That pulls a weak laugh from me.
“And Jackson just went along with it?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t even blink. And afterward, we talked. We decided it might not be the worst idea to keep pretending. At least for now.”
Greg exhales. “Yeah… that sounds like Jackson.”
Then, softer this time, he adds, “He’s always protected you. Since we were kids. Guess some things don’t change.”
A lump forms in my throat. I grip the edge of the counter without meaning to, blinking hard at the floor.
Because he’s right.
There’s a pause on the line, then Greg says, “That’s probably why I had a missed call from Jackson.”
“He called you?” I ask.
“Yeah, left a voicemail. Didn’t have time to listen,” Greg replies. “I’ve been in and out of procedures until now. But I’m guessing that’s what he was calling about.”
He pauses, then says more quietly, “Alright. I’ve got to scrub in, but I’ll call him when I’m out. Just a check-in. I need to hear this from him too. And… thank you for telling me.”
He doesn’t say goodbye, just clicks off the line like he always does when he’s heading into surgery.
I set the phone down harder than I mean to.
My heart is hammering, but it’s not from panic. I’m angry.
Brad knew exactly what he was doing.
One photo. One caption. And now people are going to start wondering.
My stomach turns.
He still thinks he is in control.
Of me.
Of us.
Like none of it ever happened. Like I didn’t walk away.
I grab my phone again, thumbs clumsy on the screen as I pull up Instagram.
There it is. I stop breathing for a second.
It’s one of the engagement photos we took at the lake last September. I remember that day. He brought the wrong shoes, complained about the weather, and barely looked up from his phone unless the photographer prompted him.
But you wouldn’t know that from this picture.
We’re smiling. I’m leaning into him. His arm is around my waist like it belonged there.
The caption reads: Some things are worth fighting for. Can’t wait for what’s next.
That’s it.
No context. No tags. No explanation.
Just a lie dressed up like a love story.
My skin prickles. The photo already has hundreds of likes.
Comments are turned off, but it doesn’t matter. The post is out there. Public. Carefully curated to look like a reunion. Like I went back to him.
My throat tightens. My heart beats hard against my ribs.
I didn’t just walk away from Brad. I left the life he expected to control. The image. The narrative. I took that from him, and now he’s attempting to snatch it back in the most public way he can.
I swipe out of the app and toss my phone onto the counter. It skids across the surface and stops near the sink.
I brace my hands on the edge, head bowed, trying to slow my breathing.
There’s a notification blinking on the screen, but I don’t check it.
I don’t need to. The photo’s already making its rounds.
My stomach twists with dread.
My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s a text from Jenna with a screenshot of the post.
What the hell is this?
I immediately call her.
“Please tell me that post isn’t what it looks like,” she says, skipping hello.
“It’s not,” I say, my voice flat. “He’s making it up.”
Jenna blows out a breath. “I knew it was crap, but you know how it is. People see an engagement photo and a hopeful caption and assume you’re registering for dishware again.”
I rub at my temple. “Times like this, I’m glad my parents don’t use social media.”
I pause. Then, quieter: “I saw him yesterday. When I went to get my stuff.”
“And?” she asks, too sharply not to know there’s more.
I close my eyes. “Jackson came with me. And… I kind of told Brad we were together.”
There’s a pause on the line.
“Well, that explains the post. He’s in a full-blown jealous egotistical spiral.”
“He kept pushing,” I mutter. “I needed him to stop.”
“If he thinks he can manipulate the narrative and not get scorched, he’s clearly forgotten who your best friend is.”
A pause, then she groans. “Ugh. I have to jump on a nonprofit board call in two minutes. These people love to talk like they invented reading.”
I actually smile. Just a little.
“Text me if you need backup. Or a distraction. If there’s anything I can do, you know I’m here for you.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “I’ll let you know.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I took time off to breathe. To get my footing. And now Brad is using that silence to reshape the story around me.
But he doesn’t get to write the ending.
Not this time.
I grab my phone again, fingers stiff, and head toward the back of the house. The faint thud of something echoes from the garage: rubber soles on concrete, a zipper dragging open. I follow the sound without thinking, pushing through the mudroom door and blink my eyes at the sunlight.
Jackson’s crouched beside his SteelClaws equipment bag, garage door halfway open, cool air moving in around him. His hoodie sleeves are shoved to his elbows, and he’s methodically checking straps, pads, and tape one piece at a time.
Focused. Calm. Like it’s just any other morning and not the one where my ex decided to rewrite history in front of hundreds of people.
He doesn’t look up at first, but when he does, his brows lift slightly. “Hey.”
I hold out my phone. “Greg called this morning. I didn’t know why until I saw this.”
He rises, takes the phone from me, and scans the post. His jaw clenches immediately.
“He’s trying to spin it,” I say. My voice sounds strained. “Like I went back. Like nothing happened.”
Jackson exhales, slow and controlled. “He doesn’t like that you walked away. So now he’s pretending you didn’t.”
I nod, throat constricted.
“This is what he does when things don’t go his way,” I say quietly. “He hijacks the story and dares you to contradict it.”
Jackson meets my eyes without flinching. “Then let’s rewrite it.”
My eyes meet his, and for a moment, the air between us stills with quiet certainty. The kind that makes you believe that even with everything falling apart, somehow you will make it through and be okay.
Jackson has always been like that. A steady presence. A grounding force. Back then, it was on the school steps or in the hallway after someone bullied me. Now it’s here, in his garage that smells faintly of tape and laundry detergent.
And somehow, just standing here with him, it’s easier to breathe.
His gaze doesn’t waver, and I realize I’ve straightened without meaning to. Shoulders squared. Chin up.
“Let’s make this look real,” he says. “Not just to him, but to everyone.”
I meet his eyes, and for a moment, the air between us stills. My pulse kicks up again, but this time it isn’t dread.
It’s resolve.
I tuck the phone into my pocket, straighten my shoulders.
He holds my gaze. His voice doesn’t waver.
“Ready to go public?”