Chapter 13
Sadie
The morning air is crisp enough that the coffee in my hand is still steaming, curling tendrils into the sunlight.
I’m barefoot on the front step, knees pulled up, mixing a base color in an old yogurt container. The rich swirl of paint clings to the stick in my hand, colors deepening in the open air.
My top is tucked up to keep it out of the way, the edge brushing just under my ribs. I’ve been so absorbed in getting the shade right that I don’t hear the car until it’s slowing at the curb.
I glance up, ready to drop the shirt and tug it down, my shoulders tightening—until I see who it is.
Boone.
He leans slightly across the steering wheel, window down, and lifts a paper coffee cup in greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
I should pull my shirt down. I should put the coffee aside. But for some reason, I don’t move right away.
He parks and steps out, his boots crunching over the gravel in front of my porch. The early light catches in his hair, the edges still damp from a shower.
He looks like he belongs in the sort of old-fashioned postcard they sell at the harbor—handsome in a way that feels… solid.
“You like coffee?” he asks, as if the cup in my own hand isn’t proof enough.
I hold mine up in answer. “Always.”
He offers me the other one anyway, and I take it because it’s warm against my fingers and smells like cinnamon.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Gabe told us about the bike situation. And the new arrangement.”
I blink. “The… new arrangement?”
He nods. “You working the Baxter’s wall before the fire station mural. Said you needed rides sometimes. Gabe had to be at the station, so I volunteered.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my bare feet, my top still tucked up. You could have given me a little warning, I think, but there’s no irritation in it. More like… confusion.
He looks past me at the paint jars, the sketch pad propped against the porch post. “You working already?”
I follow his gaze. “Just mixing a base color.”
His attention comes back to me, lingering in a way that makes the air between us feel warmer. There’s nothing overt in it—he’s not smirking or looking me over in some obvious way—but it’s… intent.
Don’t read into it, Sadie.
Warmth spreads in my chest anyway, a low thrum under my ribs. I push it down hard.
Boone doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how fractured I am, how stripped down and hollow I feel on the worst days. If he did, if he knew the whole of it, he wouldn’t be looking at me with anything except maybe pity.
“You have everything ready so I can drop you off?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, setting my coffee aside. “Just need to grab my supplies.”
Inside, I change—old jeans, paint-spattered hoodie, sturdy sneakers. I keep it brisk, efficient. The less Boone’s left to stand around outside, the less time there is for me to think about his expression when he looked at me.
We load the jars and canvas rolls into his car. He takes the heavier boxes without asking, stacking them carefully so nothing shifts.
Then I’m sliding into the passenger seat, buckling up, and suddenly I’m in his space—close enough to catch the faint scent of his soap under the coffee and leather.
He starts the engine, pulling away from the curb. I glance at him and say, “You’re being weirdly quiet.”
His fingers tighten just a little on the steering wheel.
A beat of silence, and the thought worms its way in before I can stop it: Did he see? Is it because of the bruises the other day? Is that what this is?
I stare out the window, my jaw tight. The memory of that exam with him—how exposed I’d felt—slides cold under my skin.
Then Boone exhales and says, “I told the other guys.”
The words land like a blow. My head snaps toward him. “You… what?”
His eyes flick to me, then back to the road. “I told them what I saw. I shouldn’t have—”
“What exactly did you tell them?”
He watches me like he’s scared I’ll jump out of this truck and run, and maybe I should.
“That you were in danger and I had a feeling you were being abused. Gabe is in the fire department. He’s close to some of the police and I thought it would be a lot easier if we knew what was going on so we could have a handle on it. I know I have no right—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intend. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”
“I just…” He hesitates, jaw clenching. “I want to understand what exactly happened to you.”
“I am not your fucking responsibility, Boone.”
“Sadie…”
The air in the car feels smaller, thicker. “You want to understand?” My laugh is short, humorless. “Congratulations. You just made sure I’m never telling you another damn thing.”
His head turns sharply toward me, but I don’t look at him. My arms cross over my chest.
“This is why,” I say, quieter now. “This is why I don’t tell people. Because it always comes back to bite me in the ass.”
The rest of the drive is silent except for the low hum of the engine. My coffee sits cooling in the cup holder, untouched.
When he pulls up to Baxter’s, I unbuckle without looking at him. My supplies shift as I grab them from the back, the sound of canvas rolls and jars rattling filling the gap where some scrap of conversation should be.
“Sadie—” he starts.
But I’m already out on the sidewalk. “Thanks for the ride.” My voice is polite, flat, the kind of tone you use with someone you know you can’t trust anymore.
I don’t wait for whatever he might say next.
Inside my chest, something is buzzing—anger, hurt, the sharp edge of betrayal. I shove it down as I carry my supplies toward the wall, but it’s there, steady and sour.
Boone’s shadow falls over me before I even hear his footsteps. I’m crouched, setting the last jar of paint down next to the wall, when his voice comes low and rough behind me.
“Sadie, I’m sorry.”
The air feels too thick, pressing against my ribs. I don’t turn around. My grip tightens on the paintbrush until my knuckles ache. “Please don’t touch me.”
He stops—close enough that I can hear the subtle change in his breathing, but not so close that I can feel his body heat.
Don’t cry. Don’t let him see you like this. Not him. Not anyone.
“I didn’t mean to—”
I turn, just enough for my eyes to meet his, and it’s like my voice has been scraped down to steel. “You had no fucking right, Boone.” My throat tightens, but the words stay sharp. “None.”
His jaw works, like he wants to argue, but I’m already looking away, setting the brush in the jar.
“Bye, Boone.”
It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be.
After a beat, his boots scrape against the sidewalk. The sound of the car door shutting is too final, like something that can’t be undone. The engine rumbles to life, fades down the street, and then it’s just me and the south-facing wall of Baxter’s Feed he shared something I showed him, something I hadn’t intended for anyone else to see.
This is why. This is why you keep things locked down. This is why you don’t trust anyone. Because the second you let your guard down, someone takes that piece and hands it to someone else like it’s theirs to give away.
I stare into the tea.
I can’t handle this anymore.