Chapter Fifty One
Warning: Trauma May Cause Regret and Other Side Effects
T he silence is the worst part.
Not the cold floors, or the drafty windows, or even the shower that wheezes and gasps like an asthmatic dragon just to get lukewarm.
No.
The quiet is what gets me.
For a while, this place felt like a little country sanctuary. Old, but mine. A place I’d carved out of the chaos I dove into headfirst.
I learned the quirks of it like muscle memory—the way the light switches are reversed in the hallway, the constant buzz of the old fridge, how the second drawer in the kitchen sticks if you pull too hard. Learned how to make the shitty oven work in my favor.
Now, it just feels empty and cold.
And not because I left my favorite blanket back… there.
I’m wrapped in the same cardigan I’ve been wearing for three days, half a sleeve tucked under my cheek, the rest balled up in my lap.
There’s a crusted-over bowl of soup I never touched on the floor, and the TV is playing reruns I’ve seen a hundred times but couldn’t describe to anyone if they asked.
I haven’t been able to eat. Not really. I tried toast from bread I’d made a while back, frozen and thawed yesterday and ended up gagging over the sink, a migraine splitting my skull wide open.
Food tastes like nothing. Coffee tastes like nothing. Everything tastes like nothing.
I feel like nothing.
I miss him.
God, I miss him.
His hands. His voice. The way he looks at me like I matter more than the air in his lungs.
But more than anything—I miss her.
Aurora.
The way she clutches her bear when she’s tired. The way she says Dada like it’s her favorite word in the world. The way she used to reach for me, like maybe... just maybe... I belonged to her, too.
I let my past destroy everything. Let one letter from a dead woman tear through all the progress I’d made. Through everything we build together.
A letter that at first glance, was heartbreaking.
She was everything I always thought she would be.
Loving, and tragic, and his .
And in that moment, I saw what I wanted to see all because I was already hanging on by threads, too terrified by the realization that Kade’s home had somehow become my home.
That the three of us became a family. And that the future I’d always dreamt of, the wishes I’d spent my life making, had all come true.
For months, I was living the dream. I was knee-deep in those wishes.
And I wasted it. Didn’t see it. Was too scared to grab hold and never let go.
But as the days stretch into a week, and the ugly cloud of fear has dissolved into regret, I see that letter for something else entirely.
Marlee’s words, syrupy and bitter, equal parts hurt and poison, have been echoing through my head all week.
And like the idiot I am, I listened to them. Let them get under my skin. Let them poke all the places I’ve tried to stitch closed. The old scars.
The ones that whisper, You’re not good enough. You’re just a placeholder. You’re always second best.
I didn’t even give Kade a chance to explain. Didn’t trust the man who’s done nothing but show up for me, day after day, without fail. I ran. He said he loved me, finally gave me the words on a broken rasp, and I still ran.
And now, I’m stuck in this hell of my own making.
Wrapped in the quiet and loneliness and hell I deserve.
Until a sharp knock shatters it.
I jolt upright, tissues and blankets tumbling off me in a cascade. My heart slams against my ribs.
Kade?
Oh, God.
No one else knows where I live. I never told the Archers because no one ever asked. Like they all assumed that Kade’s home was my home.
I stumble to my feet, adrenaline roaring through me. In my haste, I trip over a pillow, kick an empty mug, all in an effort to shove my way toward the bathroom mirror.
Soon as I catch sight of myself, I wince and want to cry all over again.
My curls are flat and tangled, pulled back in some limp half-knot. My eyes are red and swollen, my cheeks blotchy. I’m wearing an oversized tee with a random stain on the hem and sweatpants I may have also slept in last night. Or the night before.
Probably all week.
They’re both Kades, because even while running for my emotional life, I was still greedy and lovesick and obsessed. A few days ago, when I spilled on his stolen shirt, I sobbed even harder.
My eyes snag on that stain.
And I promptly start crying again.
“Open up, ginger tits! Or I’ll find the nearest cowboy and break the fucking door down!”
My mouth falls open, and a fresh sob punches up my throat.
Abby.
I sprint to the door, tripping over a pair of my suitcase and a half-folded laundry basket I gave up on three days ago. I unlock the bolt with shaking hands and yank it open.
And there she is.
All five-foot-two inches of smoky-eyed, curvy perfection. Black leggings, a hoodie that says Hex the Patriarchy, combat boots, and an armful of chaos. In one hand, she holds a bottle of tequila. In the other—a fresh box of tissues.
Grinning, she steps aside.
Behind her sits a suitcase.
“I packed the essentials,” she says with a wink. “Enough to perform either a love spell, a hate spell, or a moving-on spell.” Waving the alcohol, she adds, “And the courage to pick one.”
I throw myself into her arms, sobbing.
“Abby,” I cry, collapsing against her like the wreck I am. “I fucked up.”
She sighs, hugging me tight, her familiar perfume hitting my nose like a wrecking ball.
“I know, babe,” she whispers, her chin on my shoulder. “Let’s fix it.”
The tequila bottle’s half-empty and my heart feels the same.
I’m curled into the far corner of my sagging couch, wrapped in the softest blanket I’ve ever felt, wearing the new pajama set Abby brought me. It’s navy with moons and stars and says Manifest That Shit across the chest. The irony is not lost on me. The blanket matches. So do the slippers.
I have the best friend in the world.
Abby’s got her feet in my lap, her green satin robe slipping off one shoulder. Her toenails are painted black and chipped to hell, her eyeliner smudged like she’s in a rock band, and her mouth is full of gluten-free tortilla chips that she’s shoveling in with tequila-shot timing in mind.
“You’ve got crumbs in your cleavage,” I mutter, voice raw from crying and drinking.
She shrugs. “Built-in snack tray.”
I laugh. It’s wet and pathetic, but it still counts.
She tops off both our glasses, squinting one eye shut like that helps her aim.
“When I didn’t hear from you for a while, I figured you were off somewhere finally hooking up with the cowboy.”
I snort but it turns into a drunken sob.
“I’m not that obvious,” I cry. “Maybe I found someone else to fuck.”
Abby scoffs. “Georgia, you talked about him like he was some combination of John Wayne and Jason Momoa. Of course it was obvious.”
“I hate John Wayne.”
She rolls her eyes and sips her drink. “No one hates John Wayne, but that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point, Abby?” Sniffling hard, I give her a desperate look. “Because I don’t understand it anymore. Don’t understand any of this. How did I get here?”
“You fell in love, Georgia. That’s how.”
I nod slowly. “I really did.”
She shifts her feet, drawing her knees up, voice gentler now. “And the baby? His little girl?”
“Aurora.” I swallow thickly, tears pressing behind my eyes again. “She’s mine.”
“Wow.” Abby lets out a quiet breath, smiling around the rim of her glass. “Then let’s get your family back, babe.”
“Oh, yeah?” I blink at her but she’s all blurry. “Just like that?”
“Yeah. Just like that. I mean, we might have to sacrifice a goat and ask the stars for help, but yeah, basically.”
“Don’t touch the goats. They’re adorable.” I shake my head, a choked laugh escaping. “I don’t even know what I’d say to him. I ran. I didn’t trust him. I read a letter that wasn’t mine and let it break me. I don’t deserve to go back.”
She’s already heard the whole sordid tale multiple times, but I can’t get past the letter. How did I get it so wrong? How could I have been so stupid? So selfish?
So blind.
Abby leans forward, pointing her lime wedge at me. “Okay first, don’t ever say you don’t deserve love again or I will hex your ovaries.”
“Is that… a thing?”
“I’ll make it a thing.”
My brows furrow. “Hex them in what way? Like never have kids, because that’s awful, Abigail. Even for you.”
“I would never,” she snaps, pressing a hand to her chest. “I may not want a little spawn of my own, but I would never take that from someone.”
“Then what are you threatening?”
She waggles her brows. “Octuplets.”
I throw a pillow at her face with a cry of outrage. “My poor vagina!”
“Exactly. Don’t cross me, ginger tits.” She snags the pillow and hugs it to her chest with a sigh. “Look. Did you fuck up? Yeah. But he loves you. You’re not the only trauma-ridden mess in this relationship, Georgia. You both deserve forgiveness. Especially from yourselves.”
I suck in a breath, trying not to dissolve again. “I just… I miss them so much.”
Her eyes go soft. “I know, babe. I know.”
We sit in silence for a minute, the kind only best friends can share without it being awkward. The only sound is a storm raging outside and the faint clink of ice in our glasses.
Then Abby tips over sideways on the couch with a groan.
“You’re not the only one who fucked up,” she says, flopping dramatically onto her back.
I arch a brow, the room spinning just enough to make it feel like the couch is floating. “Care to elaborate?”
She winces. “Would’ve been here days ago, but I sort of…”
“ Abigail .”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush.
“Met a hot guy in a bar, went to a hotel with him, had the best sex of my entire life—like, fall-in-love-during-it kind of sex—and then…”
I jolt upright, gripping the back of the couch when the room spins hard. “And then? Don’t leave me on a cliffhanger, witchling! I know where you’re sleeping tonight!”
“And then,” she drawls, sniffling discreetly, “I answered his phone the next morning thinking it was mine and do you know who was calling him?”
I stare.
She finishes on a whisper. “His fucking wife .”
I gasp so hard I nearly choke on my shock. “What?! Oh my god. I swear to everything, Abby, give me his name and I will track him down. I will throw salt circles around his house and unleash your witchy ancestors on his balls.”
“I already hexed his penis to shrink an inch every time he lies.”
My head tilts, brows high. “Inches? Not like…” Hands flapping, I hedge, “Centimeters?”
“ Inches .”
“So… he had a lot of, um… length to lose?”
She nods solemnly.
I bite my lip, stomach flipping as memories of Kade’s impressive dick assault my senses. That man could lose five inches and still hit my g-spot.
“How much?”
Abby shrugs. “At least ten.”
“Ten inches!?” I screech, spilling my drink all over the floor as I shoot to my knees. “But.. But.. Abby ! You’re so tiny! How did you even accommodate a ten-inch dick without dying?”
She snorts tequila and coughs into her sleeve, wagging her fingers in my face. “Really good foreplay and giant fingers to stretch me out.”
“You swear?” I ask, still in shock. “Ten?”
“Ten.”
I suck in a breath so sharp I might’ve dislodged a lung. “Not like... combined total from multiple sessions?”
She shakes her head. “Single session. Single source. Single soul-destroying cock.”
“Jesus, Abbs. That’s not a penis, that’s a bodily hazard.”
Abby sniffs. “The man not only caused emotional damage but also pelvic bruising.”
“You lucky little slut,” I mutter, shaking my head. “One for the bucket list?”
“Yep.”
“Did you really hex him yet?”
She tips her head back and wails. “No! I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Cheater or not, the man fucks like a god!”
We fall apart, both of us cackling so hard it turns into a wheeze. My face is soaked with tears again, but at least these are from laughter.
Eventually, the quiet creeps back in and we both slump, legs tangled, tequila forgotten.
I wipe my cheek and whisper, “I’m so happy you’re here, Abby.”
“Me too, ginger tits. Me too.”