Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, my spine protesting and my right foot already going numb, and wondered—not for the first time—why I was like this.
Why was I drawing with a barely functioning blue ink pen from the junk drawer and an ancient yellow legal pad that had seen better decades?
Oh, right.
Because Michael Rankin had scared the holy hell out of me, and I’d shot out of my apartment in Gatlinburg like a bat out of hell with exactly zero thought put into anything beyond get to Zarek.
Art supplies? Sensible shoes? Emotional preparation?
Who needed those?
I shifted, the legal pad rustling in my lap, and looked down at the sketch I’d just finished.
Kael stared back at me.
My Kael. Tall, sharp-cheekboned, eternally tired.
Except this time, he had a black eye and a butterfly bandage over his eyebrow.
I’d shaded the bruise with cross-hatching, dark on one side, lighter on the edge—almost exactly the way Zarek’s had looked in the bathroom mirror this morning when I’d pretended not to stare.
I grimaced.
“Nope,” I told the drawing. “We’re not doing that.”
I dragged a line through Kael’s face, then another, until his eyes and the bruise and the bandage were nothing but an ink-scratched mess. The pen snagged on the cheap paper. I flipped to a clean sheet.
My phone buzzed in my purse for what felt like the hundredth time.
I ignored it.
Whoever it was could wait. If it was my editor, she’d already sent two gentle emails and one sharp one. If it was Trenda, she’d keep calling until either I answered or she drove over to Gatlinburg to find an empty apartment.
I put the pen back to paper.
Seris this time.
Her hair came first—wild, dark waves. Then her eyes, big and wary. I added the line of her shoulders, then the suggestion of fabric. My hand moved on autopilot, pulling from muscle memory and design choices I’d made months ago.
I reached her dress… and stopped.
Because I’d drawn this dress.
The soft cotton, dark blue with tiny white flowers.
The one I was currently sitting in on Zarek’s living room floor, wrinkling beyond salvation.
The hem hit just above Seris’s knees the same way it did on mine.
The neckline, the little buttons down the front—even the way the fabric pulled slightly where her knee was bent.
I stared at the page.
“Seriously?” I said out loud.
On the paper, Seris sat cross-legged on a cracked concrete floor, surrounded by rubble and the ghost of her ruined city.
I sat cross-legged on a freshly vacuumed carpet, surrounded by order and lemon cleaner.
Yeah. I had absolutely no problem separating fantasy from reality here. Everything was fine in my head.
The phone buzzed again. Longer this time. Probably a call instead of a text.
I still ignored it.
If I picked it up, I’d have to answer questions.
If I answered questions, I might have to admit that I’d come back without knowing what I was doing.
The pounding on the front door almost made me fling the pen across the room.
“Open up!” a voice shouted.
I didn’t need a caller ID for that one.
Shit.
Maddie.
The pounding continued, slightly out of sync this time.
“Don’t ignore us!” a second voice added.
Trenda.
“I will get Jiffy to break down this door if you don’t open it. Now!”
And Zoe.
Of course.
I closed my eyes briefly and counted to three. My legs screamed as I tried to uncross them. I’d been sitting there long enough for both feet to fall asleep. Pins and needles shot up my calves.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I yelled, shoving the legal pad onto the coffee table and staggering upright.
Every joint popped in protest. My lower back chimed in with a cracking sound that probably belonged in someone twice my age.
I limped to the front door and pulled it open.
Three Avery sisters stood on the porch, shoulder to shoulder, grins wide enough to power the county.
“You’re back!” Maddie crowed, lunging in for a hug.
“You’re back,” Trenda echoed, hugging me from the other side.
Zoe just wrapped her arms around all three of us, squeezing hard enough that my ribs complained in sympathy for Zarek’s.
“Ow! I think you cracked my ribs.” I got an arm free long enough to fumble the door shut behind them before we all stumbled into the living room in a tangle of limbs.
“You’re going to crack a rib again,” I wheezed.
“You can’t crack what’s already cracked,” Maddie said. “That’s science.”
“That’s not how science works,” Zoe muttered.
Trenda stepped back finally, her eyes sweeping over me from head to toe. “You look good,” she said, and I could hear the quiet relief under it.
“Liar,” I said, but it came out soft. “Where are Bella and Drake?”
“School and daycare,” Trenda said, glancing toward the hallway like she expected to see tiny tornadoes come barreling through. “We figured we’d get intel first, then unleash the children.”
“Good call,” I said. “I don’t think the vacuum lines could take that level of chaos.”
All three of them looked at the carpet. At the perfectly aligned towels in the kitchen. At the way the house practically gleamed.
Maddie raised a brow. “You’ve been busy.”
“Not me,” I said, and even I could hear the weird note in my voice.
We ended up in the living room, the four of us spread out—me on the floor again, them on the couch and chair. My legal pad and crappy pen lay traitorously on the coffee table. Seris stared up at me from the top page, wearing my dress.
“So,” Zoe said, tucking one leg under her. “Start talking.”
“I want all of it,” Trenda added. “The truth. Not the ‘I’m fine’ version.”
Maddie just smiled at me quietly, eyes soft and determined. “We’re not leaving until you tell us what’s going on,” so said the social worker.
I swallowed.
I gave them the outline. The safe version. I told them about Zarek’s cleaning—how he’d turned the house into a showroom, how the towels hung in perfect rows, how the fridge looked like an organization influencer had been here with a sponsorship deal. They snorted at that.
“So he’s dealing with grief by becoming a control freak,” Zoe summarized. “Classic male coping mechanism. If you can’t fix your heart, fix the damn spice rack.”
“Exactly,” I snorted.
I told them about the MMA gym. About his bruised ribs and his taped eyebrow. About Cappy and the ring and how he’d said he wasn’t going back.
I didn’t tell them about the way his voice had sounded when he’d said, I wouldn’t expect anything else.
I didn’t tell them about his face when he’d said, You can keep the house. I should be the one in an apartment.
That part was his. Ours.
“Men are idiots,” Trenda declared.
“Amen,” Zoe said.
Maddie tilted her head. “You still love him.”
It wasn’t a question.
I looked up and scowled at her. “Of course I do. Loving Zarek was never the problem.”
“And he loves you,” she added gently.
Also not a question.
I stared at Seris’s dress on the legal pad and didn’t answer.
They didn’t press.
“What can we do?” Zoe asked instead. “Besides threatening to rearrange his perfectly lined-up magnets. I can do that. I will do that.”
I almost laughed. “Please don’t make him stroke out in front of the fridge.”
“Seriously, though,” Trenda said. “Do you want us to talk to him? Run interference? Bring food? Bring wine? Sic the men on him? If he likes to fight, Simon could give him a run for his money, being a retired SEAL and all.”
“I know! We could cancel his gym membership,” Zoe said as she snapped her fingers.
“Hey,” Maddie cut in. “Sabotaging a man’s gym membership is a war crime in some states.”
I shook my head. “I just… need you to listen. And not… push. Or panic. Or start planning a second wedding or a divorce party.”
“Fine,” Zoe said. “I’ll cancel the marching band.”
Trenda nudged my foot with hers. “We’ve got you,” she said simply. “Whatever you decide.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Also,” I added, “I need you to get the hell out of the house in about ten minutes so I can cook dinner.”
Three sets of eyebrows went up.
“For Zarek?” Maddie asked, like there might be another man hidden in the pantry.
“No, for the mailman,” I said dryly. “Yes, for Zarek.”
Trenda perked up immediately. “I can cook.”
“You already helped by letting me tempt him with your lasagna. Now it’s up to me.”
“Okay, Honey. We’ll be here however you need us.” Trenda said with her warm, big sister smile.
Her words sank into the walls like medicine.
I herded them toward the door with hugs and promises.
“Call if you need us,” Maddie said.
“Or if you don’t,” Zoe added. “We’ll probably show up anyway.”
Trenda cupped my face in her hands. “You look better,” she said quietly. “Not fixed. But better.”
I nodded, blinking hard. “Work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all,” she murmured, and kissed my forehead before they finally let me shut the door.
The house felt bigger when they were gone. Quieter. The clock in the hallway suddenly seemed very loud.
I checked the time.
Four o’clock.
He should be home soon.
Cooking felt safer than sitting.
I rummaged through the fridge he’d organized within an inch of its life and tried to pick something that said “I care” but not “welcome home to our second honeymoon” or “I’m trying to fix our marriage with carbs.”
I landed on roasted chicken thighs with potatoes and green beans. Simple. Solid. It would smell good, and it would give him leftovers for the next day in case he forgot to eat like a human being.
I prepped everything, cutting the potatoes into even cubes, tossing them with oil and herbs, laying everything in neat rows on the pan. I even cleaned as I went, because I was not about to trigger whatever compulsion lived inside him by leaving flour footprints on his immaculate floor.
The house slowly filled with the smell of roasting garlic and paprika. The vacuum lines stayed intact.
I checked the clock again.
Five-thirty.
No Zarek.
I basted the chicken. Adjusted the oven temp. Tried not to watch the window like a stalker ex-wife.
Six.
Still nothing.
I set the table for two. Then I felt stupid and put one plate back. Then I felt mean and put it out again.
Six-thirty.
I told myself he could be at the station. Paperwork. An extra call. Something.
By seven, the food was losing its shine and my nerves were fraying. I wrapped both plates in foil and set them in the oven to at least try and keep them warm.
I’d called him three times. Straight to voicemail each time.
On the fourth try, I hung up before it rang through and scrolled to Michael’s name instead.
He picked up on the first ring. “Rankin.”
“Hey. It’s Chloe.”
His voice softened instantly. “Hey, Chloe. Everything okay?”
“Depends,” I said. “Is Zarek with you?”
Silence. The bad kind.
“No,” he said slowly. “He left the station around nine-thirty this morning. Wanted to argue with Cap about interior. Lost, obviously.”
“Nine-thirty? This morning?” My hand tightened around the phone.
Michael cursed under his breath. “Yeah, Cap put him on the bench. Light duty only. He told him to go home and rest. I figured he’d… actually go home and rest.”
“He didn’t come home. Do you have any other idea where he might have gone?” I asked.
“You want me to swing by Cappy’s? Or the usual spots?”
I closed my eyes and pictured Zarek on a mat somewhere, trading blows with another stranger, ribs screaming, lungs burning, as if pain were something he could eventually exhaust into quiet.
My stomach turned.
“No,” I said softly. “If he’s there, Cappy’s watching him. I just… needed to know he didn’t disappear into a structure fire.”
“He won’t do anything that stupid,” Michael said. “He might sulk, fight, and clean his baseboards with a toothbrush, but he won’t be reckless with the job.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Okay.”
“You need anything?” he asked. “Want me to come by? Camp out on the porch with a hose and a taser?”
A laugh escaped me, shaky but real. “I think I’ve hit my Avery sibling quota for the day. I’ll be okay. Thanks, Michael.”
“Call if that changes,” he said. “And… for what it’s worth, him being this much of a mess over you? It’s not pretty. But it’s not nothing.”
We hung up.
I stood in the kitchen with the phone still in my hand.
It hit me then, the thing I should’ve seen from the beginning.
Just because I had clawed my way through the dark, just because I had told my therapist and my sisters and myself that I had dragged myself out of the dark… that didn’t mean Zarek had done the same.
What’s more, I had left. I was the one who had put our marriage in danger.
I had packed a suitcase and walked out when he was barely holding himself together, and now I had marched back in with a new determination and a carefully roasted chicken like that evened the score.
And I was such a selfish wench, I expected that, ta-da, you should be on the same page as me.
“How did I not see that?” I whispered to the empty kitchen.
The front door opened.
The sound snapped through the house like a crack.
My heart leapt into my throat. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel, smoothed my dress automatically, and stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway.
He stood just inside the doorway, shoulders slumped, gym bag hanging from his hand like a weight he’d forgotten he was carrying.
He smelled like sweat and chalk and the metallic tang of old adrenaline. His T-shirt was damp. His hair was flattened in the back, like he’d spent time with his head against something—wall, car headrest, didn’t matter.
He saw me.
His eyes flickered—surprise, something like guilt, something like exhaustion, all in one heartbeat.
“Oh,” he said, voice rough. “You’re still here.”