Chapter 44
The door shut behind him.
The sound was final, echoing the feeling of something shattering inside my chest.
I stayed exactly where I was — hand still half-raised like maybe, maybe, I could’ve grabbed him if I’d just moved faster.
But I hadn’t.
My fingers curled into my palm, nails digging crescent moons into my skin.
I couldn’t even cry.
I just stood there, staring at the door, hoping that if I stared hard enough, maybe it would open again. Maybe he’d come back.
But he didn’t.
Minutes passed. Or hours. I couldn’t tell.
I sank down to the floor when my knees finally gave out, my back pressed against the counter. My chest hurt — tight, sharp, like something was lodged inside it that wouldn’t come out.
I should’ve said something.
Anything.
But my throat had closed up. My lips had parted and nothing — nothing — had come out.
He’d told me he loved me.
And I’d let him walk away.
The tears came all at once then — hot and fast, spilling down my face as I buried it in my hands. I hated myself.
Not for loving him — I couldn’t even stop if I tried.
But for proving Joel right.
Too much and not enough, all at once.
Joel had never said those exact words, but he didn’t have to. Every time he looked through me, every time he laughed at something I’d said, every time he’d turned away in bed instead of touching me — it had all said the same thing.
And now, when it mattered most, I’d proved him right.
Of course, I couldn’t say it.
Of course, I couldn’t be the kind of person worth staying for.
The worst part was that a small, ugly piece of me believed Ansel when he said he loved me.
I believed him.
But that belief was a fragile thing — like glass in my hands, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
So I stayed on the floor, curled in on myself, letting the tears soak into my sweater until I was empty. Eventually, I stood on shaky legs, wiped my face, and did what I always did.
I packed up the table. Cleaned up the pens. Wiped the counters until the store looked like nothing had happened at all.
And then I turned off the lights and locked the door behind me, like I hadn’t just lost the only person who’d ever made me feel like I mattered.
Later that night, I sat cross-legged on my bed. It was innocent enough…
It started with a Google search.
I don’t even know why I did it — maybe I just needed proof that it hadn’t all been in my head. That he hadn’t made it up. That he’d meant it when he said he loved me.
Maybe I just missed him already. It had been so long since I had seen his smile, heard his laugh. The real ones, too. Not the ones he put on for Hollywood.
I typed his name with shaking fingers.
Ansel Barlowe.
And there it was.
The first result — a headline, bold and bright like it didn’t know how to read the room: “Barlowe Gets Real: Love, Sobriety, and the Role That Saved His Life.”
I clicked on it before I could stop myself.
The video started with him sitting on a couch, dressed in something too polished, hair too clean, like someone had tried to polish the sharp edges out of him. But his eyes were still the same. Quiet. Wary. A little wild.
The reporter grinned. “So… people have seen the photos. The bookstore owner, the coffee runs, that night at the pool. You know who I’m talking about.”
Ansel smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Yeah. I know.”
“Juniper, right?”
At just the sound of her — my — name, his expression softened, unguarded, almost reverent. “Yeah. Juniper.”
“So, how did you meet her? It’s not exactly Hollywood-adjacent to be in a small town bookstore.”
“She knew who I was,” he admitted, eyes crinkling. “Apparently, I was her ‘celebrity hall pass.’” He laughed under his breath. “She thought she was being subtle. She wasn’t.”
Instantly, I wanted to argue with him. To tease the man on the screen and remind him that he had sat next to me in an empty bar. Regret festered in my stomach.
“She had a crush on you?”
His grin widened just a little. “Oh yeah. She tried to play it off, but I could tell. It was… adorable.”
The reporter leaned forward, clearly loving every second. “So she knew you — all of your ‘Battle for the Cosmos’ fame — and still treated you like a normal guy?”
“She’s the only person who’s ever really done that,” he said, voice dipping softer. “She never wanted anything from me. She just… saw me.” My throat closed up, tears pricking my eyes.
“Ansel, there’s been more speculation about the girl from the convention in Seattle almost six months ago… Care to elaborate?”
He just smiled, shaking a polished curl from his hair. “What’s there to tell?”
“Was it Juniper with you that day?”
“I guess that’s between me and the mysterious woman, isn’t it?” But his grin was devastating. He was so charming, so himself, that it about tore through me.
“Juniper’s divorced, right? Did that worry you at all?”
Ansel shook his head instantly. “No. She went through hell with her ex. And she survived it — still kind, still open. If anything, it just made me admire her more.” He ran his hand through his beard.
“Are you going to ask her about my divorce? Or do you consider divorced men less threatening than divorced women?”
The reporter blanched before continuing. “She works in that small bookstore downtown — does she like the attention that comes with dating you?”
He chuckled. “She hates it. She’ll roll her eyes and tell me I’m ruining her quiet life. But she’s amazing at what she does. She makes that store feel like home for people. She’s one of those people who gives more than they have, you know?”
“And what do you give her?”
His smile faded — something raw replacing it. “God, I hope it’s enough. She deserves more than I can give. But I’d spend the rest of my life trying if she’d let me.”
If I thought I was hurting before that line… the way his eyes sparkled, the way his own throat bobbed as he said it.
Fuck.
The reporter blinked, clearly thrown by the weight in his voice. “Wow. You’re really in love with her.”
He exhaled shakily, eyes dropping to his lap for a moment. “Yeah. I am.”
“Do you think she knows that?”
He laughed, quiet and self-deprecatingly. “I haven’t told her. I don’t know if she’d believed me.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
Ansel hesitated, jaw tightening. “Because people like me don’t usually stay. And people like her… get left. Someone made her feel like she’s too much. I hate that she believes that. I’d burn the whole damn world down to prove her wrong.”
I slapped a hand over my mouth, choking on a sob.
The reporter softened. “That’s… probably the most honest answer we’ve ever had on this show.”
Ansel just gave a small, helpless shrug. “I’ve done a lot of things wrong. But loving her? That’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Easiest, too”
I broke completely then, ugly crying alone in the dark room, clutching my phone like it was the only thing tethering me to him.
Because every single word was real.
Because I’d let him walk away, anyway.
Because how would he ever forgive me for letting him go?
When the video ended, I just… sat there, silence settling around me like a living thing — dense and suffocating.
The screen dimmed to black, and in it, I saw myself reflected: blotchy-faced, eyes red and swollen, mouth trembling like I’d just watched my own undoing play out in real time.
He’d said all of it.
And I believed every word.
It was the cruelest kind of proof — because now I couldn’t pretend I’d imagined it, couldn’t lie to myself that maybe I’d meant less to him than he’d meant to me. He’d loved me. He’d loved me.
And I had let him go.
The ache bloomed sharp and unbearable in my chest, a jagged sear that seemed to hollow me out from the inside. I pressed a hand to my sternum as if I could keep myself from splintering apart, but it was useless. I was already breaking.
God, I missed him.
Not just the kisses, not just the way his gaze burned through me like I was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
I missed the stupid, ordinary things — The dumb little texts about the dog he’d seen on his morning run, his rambling voice messages about the old films he’d found on TV, the terrible selfies he sent just to make me laugh, the way he teased me until my cheeks ached from smiling too hard.
I missed my best friend.
And that absence was a grief so heavy it felt physical, pressing me down until my body curled in on itself on top of my comforter.
What could I even say to him now?
Hi. Sorry, I froze when you told me you loved me.
Sorry, I made you walk away thinking I didn’t care.
Sorry, I proved every single fear you’ve ever had about people leaving you.
Even if I reached out, what right did I have?
He’d bared himself to me, raw and unflinching — and I’d stood there mute, watching the one person who made me feel like I mattered walk away.
A sob tore from me, sharp and ugly.
I’d been left before. But this was so much worse.
Because this time, I was the one who had opened the door and let him go. And I didn’t know how to forgive myself for it.
A laugh punched up from my throat, cruel and painful, as the realization hit me.
Joel had never looked at me that way.
Joel had never laughed with me until it hurt.
Joel had never fought for me, never chosen me, never even tried.
But Ansel had.
Ansel had made me feel seen, wanted, loved — everything Joel had convinced me I was too much or too little for.
And now, because I’d stood there silent while he told me he loved me, I’d proved Joel right, anyway. Too much and not enough, all at once.