Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Melissa
Iknow he’s going to cancel before the text even comes through.
It’s a feeling. The kind you get when you’ve lived enough life to recognize patterns forming before they announce themselves. I’m standing in my kitchen with my phone face down on the counter, olive oil heating in the pan, the soft hiss filling the space like a countdown.
We didn’t plan anything fancy. That’s the part that stings.
Just dinner at my place. He said he’d come by after work. He made a comment about how he was letting me “judge” his wine choices, which felt like progress in itself. I smiled at my phone when I read it.
Then my phone vibrates. I don’t pick it up right away.
When I do, the message is exactly what I expected, which is somehow still disappointing.
Colton: Running late. Don’t wait up.
I stare at the words longer than necessary, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Don’t wait up. Not I’m sorry. Not I didn’t mean for this to happen. Not Can we do tomorrow instead?
I type Okay and delete it.
Type No worries! and delete that too.
I finally send a simple:
Me: Okay.
It’s neutral. It’s safe. It doesn’t ask for anything.
I put the phone down and turn back to the stove, forcing myself to stay present. The vegetables sizzle. The apartment smells good. Normal. Grounded.
This isn’t a big deal, I tell myself.
This isn’t worth a reaction.
And it’s true. I’m not angry.
But as I plate the food and sit down alone, something heavy settles in my chest anyway. A quiet disappointment that doesn’t need drama to exist.
It’s not about dinner.
It’s about the assumption that I’ll adapt to his schedule, no matter what.
Hours later, after I’ve eaten by myself and had my own glass of wine … there’s still no sign of him. Good thing I didn’t wait for him because I don’t think he’s coming.
I decide to go to sleep early, turning my phone on silent.
The next morning, I get up early to head into work and find him exactly where I expect to.
His office light is on, the hallway outside mostly empty, the hospital not yet starting its morning bustle. I hesitate outside the open door longer than I meant to, my hand lifting and falling once before I knock.
“Come in,” he says absently, already buried in paperwork.
I step inside. “Hey.”
He looks up immediately, surprise flickering across his face. “Melissa.”
“Long night?” I ask lightly.
He rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah. I lost track of time.”
“I figured,” I say.
Something in my tone must give me away because his attention sharpens.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. Then I pause. “Mostly.”
He leans back in his chair, watching me now. “What does that mean?”
I shift my weight, crossing my arms loosely. “You never showed up.”
There’s no irritation in his voice … just caution.
He exhales. “I told you not to wait up.”
“I know,” I say. “And I didn’t.”
That seems to confuse him. “Then what’s the problem?”
I take a breath. This is the moment where I either swallow it or say it cleanly.
“I think I would’ve appreciated a little more warning,” I say. “Or at the very least, a text, letting me know you weren’t even coming at all.”
His brow furrows. “I was in the middle of researching.”
“I know,” I say again. “And I’m not upset about that.”
“Then—”
“I’m simply explaining how it felt,” I interrupt gently.
He stands, rolling his shoulders, like the tension has been sitting there all day. “I felt like I was being efficient.”
I blink. “Efficient?”
“Yes,” he says. “I didn’t want you waiting around.”
“I wasn’t,” I reply. “Until I was because you never actually told me you weren’t coming at all.”
There’s a pause.
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out where the wires crossed. “You could’ve said that.”
“I am,” I say softly. “Now.”
He exhales sharply, but not in an angry way … more like he’s uncomfortable. “Melissa, I don’t want to overanalyze this.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “I just didn’t want to pretend it didn’t bother me.”
His jaw tightens. “It feels like expectations.”
I nod. “It’s communication.”
“That’s a fine line,” he says.
“Only if you’re afraid of it,” I reply before I can stop myself.
The words land heavier than I intended.
He turns away, pacing once across the room. “I don’t like feeling like I’m failing at expectations I didn’t know I’d signed up for.”
I soften immediately. “I’m not keeping score.”
“That’s what it feels like,” he admits.
I step closer. “I’m not asking for perfection, Colton. I want to feel like I matter in the small moments too.”
That does it. He stops pacing. Slowly turns back to face me.
“You do matter,” he says.
“I know that. I’m identifying how last night made me feel.”
Silence stretches between us.
“You’re very calm about this,” he says finally.
“I worked hard to be,” I admit. “I don’t want to store resentment for later.”
His expression shifts. “I default to work when things feel complicated,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “I just don’t want to disappear because of it.”
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve handled it better.”
Relief loosens the tightness in my chest. “Thank you.”
He reaches for me then, resting his forehead against mine. “Come over tonight?”
I nod. “Okay.”
After work, I ride with him in his fancy car. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. By the end of the day, both of us are typically tired and don’t feel the need to fill the silence. I like it.
When we step into his apartment, the lights are low, the city stretched out beyond the windows in glittering lines. It feels familiar now in a way it didn’t at first. Less like a place I’m visiting and more like somewhere I’m allowed to be.
He shrugs off his jacket and sets it over the back of a chair. “Do you want water? Wine?”
“Water’s good,” I say.
He nods and heads to the kitchen. I slip my shoes off and curl up on the couch, pulling my legs beneath me. The cushions dip slightly when he sits beside me, handing me a glass before leaning back.
The show he turns on is something easy and mindless. Background noise. Neither of us pays much attention to it.
After a minute, he shifts, pulling me gently into his side. I go willingly, tucking myself against him, my head resting on his shoulder. His arm comes around me instinctively, firm and grounding.
I feel safe, and the realization sends a quiet ripple of fear through me.
“I don’t want you thinking I didn’t care about dinner,” he says softly after a while.
“I know,” I reply. “And I don’t want you thinking I was mad.”
He huffs a faint laugh. “We’re bad at this.”
“Maybe.” I smile. “But we’re trying.”
His thumb traces slow circles against my arm. “I’m not used to people telling me what they need without making it a whole thing.”
“I worked hard to learn how,” I admit. “I used to think speaking up meant I was being difficult.”
He glances down at me. “You’re not.”
“I know that now,” I say. “Most days.”
We lapse back into silence, the city humming outside, the show flickering light across the room. His breathing evens out, steady beneath my cheek.
After a while, he speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”
I tense slightly. “Of course.”
“Bryce,” he says quietly. “How did you meet?”
The name lands gently.
I take a breath, not because it hurts, but because it deserves care.
“College,” I say. “I was late to class for once, and the only open seat was next to him.”
Colton hums. “That tracks.”
I smile at the memory. “He was already grinning at me before I even sat down. Like he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That he was meeting someone important,” I say softly.
Colton’s arm tightens around me.
“He was easy,” I continue. “Not in a lazy way. Just … open. He talked to everyone. Made friends everywhere. He believed things would work out, even when there was no reason to.”
“That sounds like the opposite of you,” Colton murmurs.
I laugh quietly. “That’s why it worked. But it rubbed off on me. I still carry some of that with me today.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush me.
“What was it like?” he asks after a beat. “Being with him.”
“Warm,” I say. “He made ordinary days feel like something to look forward to. He wasn’t perfect though. He was stubborn and terrible at remembering appointments, but he loved fully.”
My voice wavers slightly, and Colton presses his lips to the top of my head.
“And losing him?” he asks.
I close my eyes. “It was like the ground had disappeared,” I admit. “Everything I thought I knew about the future stopped existing.”
His arm tightens, steady and strong.
“There were days I couldn’t breathe,” I continue. “Days I was angry at everyone who got to keep living when he didn’t. Days I felt guilty for laughing.”
Colton stays silent, present.
“But eventually,” I say, “I realized something. I got to love him. Not everyone gets that. Not everyone gets a love that deep, even for a short time.”
I lift my head to look at him. “I wouldn’t trade it.”
His eyes are dark, intense, but soft. “That’s incredibly brave.”
“It took time,” I say. “A lot of it.”
He pulls me closer, resting his chin against my head. “Thank you for trusting me with that.”
“Thank you for listening,” I reply.
We sit like that for a long while, wrapped together, the past acknowledged, but not overwhelming the present. I feel lighter for talking about it with him. Not because the grief is gone, but because it’s being held by someone else too.
“I don’t regret loving him,” I say quietly. “And I don’t regret being here now.”
Colton’s breath catches almost imperceptibly.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.
I settle back against him, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull me. For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel terrifying. It feels open.
The conversation doesn’t end so much as it settles.
There’s no neat conclusion, no bow tied around it. Just a quiet understanding that something important has been shared, and neither of us wants to be the first to disturb it.
Colton doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He simply pulls me closer, his arm firm around my shoulders, anchoring me there against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat now. It’s steady and strong. I realize how rare it is for him to let himself be this still.
This version of him feels different. Less guarded. Less sharp around the edges.
I shift slightly, my fingers resting against his shirt, tracing an absent-minded line along the fabric. It’s a small thing, almost unconscious, but I feel the way his body reacts—a subtle inhale, a tightening of his hold.
“You don’t talk about him like it’s only pain,” he says eventually.
“I don’t want him to be only that,” I reply softly. “He was so much more.”
His thumb moves slowly along my arm, grounding, soothing. “You’ve done a lot of work.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say. “Either I learned how to carry it … or it would’ve swallowed me.”
He presses his lips to my temple, lingering there. It’s not a kiss meant to lead anywhere. It’s reverent. Careful.
I close my eyes. This is the part that scares me.
Not the memories. Not the grief. But the way my body relaxes so completely with him like this. The way my mind quiets instead of racing. The way it feels natural to lean into someone again, to be held without preparing for the worst.
I don’t want to want this so much.
“I’m glad you told me,” he murmurs.
“Me too,” I admit. “I don’t usually talk about it like that.”
“Why?”
I hesitate. “Because people either get uncomfortable … or they feel sorry for me.”
“And I didn’t?”
I lift my head to look at him. “No. You just listened.”
An unreadable flicker crosses his expression.
“I don’t always know how to do that,” he says quietly.
“You did tonight.”
His gaze holds mine, intense but warm, like he’s seeing me more clearly now, not as the woman he wants, but the one who’s lived through something that shaped her.
He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing beneath my eye. “You’re stronger than you think.”
I swallow. “I don’t always feel that way.”
“That doesn’t change the truth,” he replies.
We stay like this for a while. Close, quiet, and unhurried. No urgency to move, no need to fill the space with words or distraction.
Eventually, I rest my head back against his shoulder, fitting there like it’s always belonged.
Colton shifts slightly beneath me, rearranging the blanket over my legs, making sure I’m warm without asking. The gesture is so simple, so domestic, that it makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
I’m falling. Not dramatically. Not recklessly.
But steadily. Quietly. In a way that feels earned.
And as I sit there in his arms, the city glowing outside the windows, I realize the truth that both comforts and terrifies me in equal measure.
I don’t feel like I’m replacing anything I lost.
I feel like I’m allowing something new to exist beside it.