Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
SOREN
It’s been a week since the world split open.
Seven days.
One hundred sixty-eight hours.
Ten thousand, eighty minutes since Ava Bell disappeared like smoke from the air.
And yes, I’ve counted every fucking one.
I’m back in Seattle. My house is quiet. Cold. And despite what the thermostat says, I haven’t been warm since I lost Ava.
Her phone is with me. Her laptop. Her notes. Everything but the woman herself. She left her life as if it were a book she no longer needed. A complete DNF. And left me holding it outside in the cold.
The first two days, I stayed in New York, where the Bookmas Bash was held. Just in case. I retraced every step she took, or could’ve taken, scoured the hotel’s security footage, and bribed every doorman and concierge within a ten-block radius for information.
Nothing.
We texted her friends and family. Nothing. Fisher checked her credit card activity. Zero. No flights. No ride shares. No receipts. Nothing. Nothing on socials. Nothing from her agent. Not even a breadcrumb from their group chat.
It’s as though she never existed. As if she flicked off her own switch and ghosted the whole fucking planet.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I rented an SUV—nothing flashy, no black Bentley, no tinted windows to draw attention—and parked outside her house. For two days.
Didn’t sleep.
Didn’t shower.
Just waited.
Every passing car made my pulse pound, thinking maybe it was her.
It never was.
Only rain. Fog. Silence. And the creeping realization that she might not come back.
All I’ve got are haunted thoughts and a heart full of unanswered questions. Where the hell are you, Bells?
I drove to Salem after that. Thought maybe she went home. I knocked on her parents’ door with a bottle of whiskey and eyes that hadn’t closed in days.
The first night, Mandy made me soup. G-Ma held my hand. And Uncle Marty made me a cocktail so aggressively festive, it came with a candy cane stir stick and a cinnamon stick crossbow.
“Rudolph’s Regret.” He slid the glass across the counter. “Twelve ounces of bourbon, three of cranberry liqueur, a whisper of nutmeg, and the tears of an emotionally devastated man.”
I took a sip. It tasted like Christmas and burned like shame.
“Yeah,” Uncle Marty nodded, already shaking up another. “That one’s a two-hanky drink.”
Later that night, after five too many Rudolph Regrets, I froze my ass off sitting in Ava’s treehouse, curled up in the world’s most dramatic sad-boy position under a plaid blanket that smelled of pine and sorrow.
Around 2 a.m., Tom came out in flannel pajama pants and said, “I’ve seen some shit, but this takes the cake,” and coaxed me back inside with the promise of leftover pot roast and central heating.
I lasted maybe twelve minutes on the couch in front of the fire before I caved and zombie-walked up to the guest room.
Worst decision of my life.
Sleeping in the same bed we shared, hugging her pillow while trying not to ugly cry into the flannel sheets?
Yeah. That was rock bottom.
I cried. But only a little. Two tears. Three, max.
Okay, I sobbed. Once. I sounded vaguely the same as a dying goat, and I will never recover. But that pillow still smelled heavy with her shampoo. And I couldn’t let it go.
So maybe I squeezed it. Maybe I buried my face in it. Maybe I humped it in a fit of heartbreak and self-deprecation.
Sue me.
Judge me.
Hell, write a song about it.
I’m not proud of it. I wasn’t in the right headspace. I was still there—pathetic, pining, and very much in love with a girl who’d stopped believing in happily ever after. I missed her so damn much it hurt to breathe. The worry crawled under my skin and settled there, gnawing, all-consuming.
The next morning, her family had officially had enough of my pity party. Tom greeted me with coffee and a look reserved for stray dogs who’ve overstayed their welcome.
Mandy muttered something about “grown men and their melodrama” while scraping eggs onto a plate. Even G-Ma gave me a side-eye so judgmental that I briefly considered therapy.
I tried to act normal, made small talk about the weather, thanked them for the hospitality, pretended I hadn’t wept into their guest linens like a man auditioning for Les Misérables. I also, mercifully, left out the part where I may or may not have gotten overly affectionate with a pillow.
Mandy finally said, “Soren, sit down. There’s something you need to understand about Ava.”
G-Ma began, “Ava tries to outrun heartache. The worst of the worst was after she broke up with I Hate Your Face.”
“I hate your face?” I parroted, confused.
“Jon Perry,” G-Ma clarified with a dramatic sigh. “Look him up.”
I reached for my phone. She waved a wrinkled hand. “You’ll find him under walking red flag with a book deal. He’ll pop right up. And if you ever see him in person, I’ve got a shovel in the trunk, a full tank of gas, and no fear of jail time.”
Mandy shot her mother a look, then turned back to me. “Jon put Ava through some shit. For a long time. The whole ordeal left her unable to trust her own instincts, so when things overwhelm that overthinking brain inside her skull, she runs. Hides. It’s her armor.”
“I’m not that guy,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I’ve shown her, over and over. And that I’m here.”
Mandy’s face falls. “We know. Look, Ava would kill us if she knew we were telling you any of this, but there’s no sense in keeping it a secret after all you’ve done to try and find her. Hell, to try and love her.”
For the next half hour, I sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug I wasn’t drinking from, eyes somewhere beyond the curtains while they told me the whole story. Not every detail—just enough to wreck me, piss me off, make me want to commit murder.
Jon Perry. The mentor who wasn’t. The man who slid into Ava’s life when she was young and trusting and turned her world into a maze she couldn’t escape.
He painted the broad strokes: the gaslighting that made her doubt her own mind, the isolation that cut her off from everyone who might’ve pulled her out, the control disguised as concern.
He fed her praise, then used it like a leash.
Hot, uncomplicated anger rose within me as they spoke.
I wanted to find Jon Perry and unmake him, and be a wrecking ball for the men who believe ideas and access are fair trade for a girl’s trust. But anger wasn’t enough.
Ava needed steadiness, an unshowy presence, proof—day after day—that a person can be safe.
By the time they were done, I could see how deeply it rewired her. Every instinct she has now is a survival tactic. The constant second-guessing. The need to stay one step ahead, to keep every emotion at arm’s length. She doesn’t just protect herself from heartbreak, she protects herself from hope.
I get it now.
Every time she pushed me away, she wasn’t punishing me. She was trying to avoid believing I might be different.
I thought of the times Ava disassociated in the middle of a smile, the way she flinched when a hand moved too fast toward hers.
Like when I grabbed her leg under the table.
I also thought about the casual cruelty of comment threads that reduce people to clickable fantasies and how easily the wrong person can turn those fantasies into a weapon.
Like what happened once Lena ran her story.
In that moment, the promise in my chest changed shape. It became a simple, practical plan. Once I found her, I would close the space between us and hold her tight. Stop promising the stars and begin building scaffolding: patience, proof, time.
More than anything, I needed to tell Ava:
You are not the damage.
You are not the reason anything broke.
You are not the fault line.
They finished sharing Ava’s story, and I walked out of that kitchen with the image of her shrinking away still burned into my retinas. Then, I started to shrink myself. Questions tumbled in.
What if I’m not enough to undo a past built on manipulation? What if she just wants to be alone? I would have to respect her boundaries. But isn’t what we have the only thing that should matter?
Regardless, I was done being dramatic about it. If she shows up, I’ll do the same, quietly, every day, until she stops believing that the worst of what happened to her is the map she must follow forever.
Later that night, I flew home, Ava’s story still coursing through my veins as I sat on the plane.
I searched online for I Hate Your Face. Found where he lives.
What he looks like. He definitely has a nose I’d love to break.
His DM’s were itching for some Pembry charm. But I haven’t done anything… Yet.
Ava deserves to return to someone who won’t unravel entirely. However, it’s a little too late for that, if I’m being honest. Just ask Ava’s pillow.
Wherever she is, I need her to know I’m never going anywhere. Even if I have to camp out in a fucking treehouse again to prove it.
It’s been a few days since I left Salem.
I drink too much. Barely sleep. I haven’t written anything in days except Ava’s name in margins.
Her initials on my notepads. Her scent still lives in my skin.
Her voice in my head. Her smile lurks in every inch of me.
And I can’t stop replaying that goddamn video Lena posted.
I saved it to my phone before Matthew got it taken down.
She’s posted a bazillion more. I’m told her cease and desist letter is coming.
I keep hoping I’ll hear a knock. Ava will show up. Coffee in hand. Eyes apologizing for everything before her mouth even speaks.
But the door doesn’t knock. The texts don’t ping. The world keeps turning without her. All I can do is watch from a distance and hope—
Hope she’s okay.
Hope she knows I’m not mad.
Hope she believes in us enough to come back.
Wherever she is… I miss the hell out of my girlfriend. Even if the whole damn internet thinks she never was.
At 3:14 a.m., I decide to text Emily. She messages back three hours later.
Hey. I know you told Fisher you hadn’t heard from her. Just checking again. Anything?
Nothing. I’m so sorry. I’ve called. I’ve emailed. I’ve even reached out to people she knows in Boston. In case they’ve heard anything. But it’s total radio silence.
She doesn’t have her cards. No ID. How would she even travel?
I don’t know. But if anyone could disappear like a ninja librarian, it’s Ava Bell.
I stare at those words—a ninja librarian. They’re so Ava, it makes my chest ache. She left her life mid-sentence. No punctuation. Or goodbye. Just an ellipsis and a vanishing act.
I’m still here—flipping pages, rereading every chapter of us, praying the story’s not over. I don’t want another book. I don’t want another heroine.
I want her.
My chaos. My calm. My comet that set my whole sky on fire.
If this story has to wait—if she needs more time before she can come back to me—I’ll wait.
Every chapter. Every page.
Until she writes her way home.
Please let me know if you hear from her.
I will, Soren.
Bells,
Know one thing: I’m not mad. Not even close. I’m hurting, yeah. The pain inside chews straight through bone. But anger? No. I couldn’t be angry at you for protecting your heart the only way you know how.
I get it. I do.
But I miss you.
I miss your laugh and how it bubbles up when you least expect it. I miss the way your eyes dart around like you’re always ten steps ahead, even when you’re pretending you’re not. I miss the warmth you bring to every cold corner of my life.
I need YOU, Ava.
I need the woman who snorts a little when she laughs too hard. The one who builds pillow forts and hides inside stories when the real world claws at her too sharply. The one who trusted me—piece by trembling piece—with her heart.
I know you’re hurting. I know you’re scared. But I believe in us. I believe in the way you kiss me, in how your hand finds mine when no one’s looking.
You finally started letting me see the tiny fissures in your walls and didn’t bolt the door shut after.
Which means…
We can overcome this, baby. Together. You just have to believe.
I don’t care how far you run or how many doors you slam—I’ll be here, waiting. I’m not trying to cage you or drag you back like some caveman.
Please understand, I want to hold you. When you’re ready.
I want to remind you that you don’t have to carry it all alone anymore.
So take your time if you need to. Disappear if you must. But make no mistake, Bells:
There’s no world where I stop loving you. No universe where I let go of what we have.
You’re my story now. And I’m not letting the last page turn without you.
Love,
S