Chapter 57
The smell of eggs, black coffee, and breakfast filled the kitchen.
Nadine had made everything from scratch.
Biscuits. Home fries. The kind of scrambled eggs that took more than a minute to make.
She’d waved off my offer to help and shooed Ansel out of the way, humming something old and sweet while the coffee brewed.
We were all crowded around the tiny kitchen table now — Ansel and I on one side, his mother across from us, with her elbow on the table and a mischievous little smirk playing on her mouth.
“So. You two,” she said, propping her chin on her hand. “How did this happen?”
I went still.
Beside me, Ansel made a low, conspiratorial noise in his throat. “You’re gonna love this, Ma.” He laughed quietly into his mug
“Oh, God.” I took a sip of coffee mostly to stall. “It’s not that interesting.”
“It’s incredibly interesting,” he said. “She was drunk. She had just signed her divorce papers. I was — what did you call me, Juniper?”
I gave him a look. “Don’t.”
“Her hall pass,” he said, grinning like a devil. “Her actual words were: ‘Oh my god, you’re Ansel Barlowe. You’re the one person I’m allowed to cheat on my husband with.’”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Nadine let out a delighted laugh. “Wait, really? You recognized him?”
“I guess so,” I muttered. “I was more focused on my drink”
“She was a menace,” Ansel said, nudging my foot under the table. “I was terrified and more than a little enchanted.”
“Terrified?”
“You know how the fans can be. She cornered me, Mom.”
“I did not.”
“She did,” he said gravely. “I was just trying to read a book in peace at the bar.”
“That’s not even true.” I said quickly, scowling. “It was barely seven pm and you sat directly next to me!”
He shook his head, denying my claims.
“There wasn’t even a book, you liar. Just you, me, and a couple of bad drinks.”
He finally shrugged. “Saw a pretty girl, didn’t expect her to have posters of my nineteen year old face all over her bedroom.” His eyes sparkled.
Nadine snorted into her coffee. “You’re full of shit.”
“I am full of shit,” Ansel admitted, smiling at me with that stupid softness I still didn’t know what to do with. “But she really did ruin me.”
And just like that, the whole room went quiet. I stared down at my plate. Ruin me.
Nadine cleared her throat. “So, Juniper. Tell me about your family.” It was a gentle question. No landmines, no sharp edges. Just normal curiosity from a woman who might just like me more than she was letting on.
But my stomach dropped anyway. “Oh,” I said. “Um. It’s just me and my dad, really. My mom left when I was four.”
Nadine’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I mean — it’s not, but. I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”
“You haven’t seen her since?” She asked gently.
I shook my head. “Not once.” The table was quiet again.
But this time, it was Ansel who broke the silence. “Shit,” he whispered. “I didn’t know that.”
I looked up.
He was staring at me like I’d knocked the air out of him. “I should’ve asked,” he said, turning his entire body to meet mine. “I should’ve — I mean. Fuck. I’ve known you for months, I’ve had you in my bed, in my lap, in my fucking life, and I never asked. I’m so sorry.”
My chest cracked. “You don’t have to apologize,” I said, too quickly, cheeks heating.
“I do.” His voice was low. “Of course I do. You know everything about my dad. About the movies. The fallout. And I never — God, June, I care. I care so much.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
It wasn’t just the apology. It was the look on his face — like he wanted to climb over the table and hold me. His hand slipped up to my cheek, gently brushing tears from my cheek.
When did I start crying?
“I want to know every part of you, Juniper.” He whispered softly, eyes darting across my face quickly, as if he was trying to read every emotion I’d ever felt.
It was too much.
Nadine, like a saint, stood up. “I’m going to get more jam.”
Neither of us moved.
I looked at Ansel.
And I wanted to say it.
Right there, jamless and stunned, with the morning sun streaming in and his hand sliding into mine again under the table. But the words got stuck.
He’s not Joel, I reminded myself. He’s never been Joel.
But I’m still me. And this still hurts.
And then Ansel reached for me.
Not just my hand this time.
He shifted his chair closer, slid his palms up my arms, warm and slow and steady, like he was grounding me. Like he could feel the tremble under my skin and wanted to soothe it from the outside in.
“I didn’t know about your mom,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I should have asked. I should’ve—”
“Don’t.” My voice cracked on the word.
“Juniper—”
“You don’t have to fix it.”
“I’m not trying to.” His hands stilled on my shoulders, his thumbs brushing just under the hem of my sleeves. “I just… I care. And I hate that you thought I didn’t.”
“I didn’t think that,” I whispered. “I didn’t think anything. I don’t let myself think about it.”
He didn’t argue. Just touched me. Smoothed his hands over the slope of my shoulders, then up, brushing a few strands of hair off my face.
“You do that,” he murmured.
“What?”
“When you’re hurting. You shrink. You go quiet and try to disappear.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“I know.” He cupped my face in both hands. “That’s why I’m here. So you don’t try and disappear alone.”
My throat closed. My chest stung.
God, I loved him.
I loved him.
And still — still — I couldn’t say it. The words piled up in my chest like static, sharp and loud and too dangerous to let free.
But he didn’t push. Just leaned forward and pressed his forehead to mine.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Not yet. I know.” I closed my eyes.
He was close enough I could feel his breath on my cheeks. His hands were still on my jaw, thumbs tracing soft little arcs under my ears like I was something delicate. Something worth holding gently.
“I’m not him,” he said, and I hated how deeply I wanted to believe it. “You can say it when you’re ready, and I’ll still be here.”
My fingers curled in his shirt. I couldn’t help it. I needed him closer. He came without hesitation, arms sliding around me, tucking me in against his chest. His mouth found my temple, then my hairline, then that spot just above my ear that made my knees go soft. Not sexual. Not now.
Just here. Just real.
I didn’t say it. Couldn’t — I wanted to so badly.
But I held him like I meant it.
And he understood.