Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sawyer
The apartment is too quiet. It hits about five minutes after the door closes. When there’s nothing left to focus on except the silence.
I’m still standing in the same spot in the living room with the book in my hand with her words staring back at me.
The door clicks shut in my head again over and over. I drop the book onto the coffee table harder than I meant to. The sound echoes through the apartment.
I drag a hand through my hair and turn away, pacing once across the room.
This is better. It has to be. It’s cleaner.
Whatever this was … it got complicated. And now it’s not.
I stop near the kitchen island. Her laptop is still sitting there.
It’s open while a document is still pulled up on the screen.
My jaw tightens. Of course it is.
I walk over and close it without looking too closely, like that somehow fixes something.
I lean back against the counter and exhale slowly.
She knew what she was doing.
The thought comes sharp and fast. It’s easy to grab on to.
That’s what she does.
She watches and listens. She turns people into stories.
I huff out a bitter breath. I just didn’t realize I was one of them.
My gaze drifts back to the living room. To the couch, where she used to sit for hours, writing, then to the blanket she always pulled around herself like she lived here.
Emotion threatens to burst out but I push it down immediately.
No, that’s not what this was.
I straighten and grab the book again. Flip it open and force myself to read another page. Looking for confirmation … for proof.
And it’s all there.
It’s not exact or obvious, but close enough.
My grip tightens on the page.
“She used me,” I mutter under my breath.
I snap the book shut and toss it back onto the island—harder this time. The sound echoes again.
I make it about ten minutes before I pick the book up again. I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
I just reach for it like if I read enough of it, I’ll find something definitive. Something that proves I’m right.
My eyes move over the page.
The hero is arguing with the heroine. He pushes her away and tells her he doesn’t need anyone.
My jaw tightens.
I skip ahead to another scene.
The heroine refuses to leave. She stays anyway.
My grip on the book shifts.
I flip again, faster now.
The hero wakes up in the middle of the night, panicked and breathing hard. The heroine is there immediately, talking him down.
My chest tightens. I stare at the words longer than I should.
Because that part? That part is right—too right.
I snap the book closed again and run a hand down my face.
“That doesn’t mean anything.” The words come out under my breath.
She was there. Of course she wrote that. It doesn’t mean anything.
I push off the counter and start pacing again.
The apartment feels wrong now, like everything is slightly out of place.
Everywhere I look, I see her.
Standing at the fridge. Sitting at the island with her laptop. Curled up on the couch in one of my shirts.
I stop in the middle of the room because that thought lingers a second too long.
She didn’t have to stay.
The realization hits quietly. Annoyingly and completely uninvited.
Of course she stayed. She needed a place to stay. That’s what this was. It was always temporary.
My jaw tightens again.
Then why didn’t she leave?
The question slips in before I can stop it.
I think about all the times she brought up apartments.
All the places she found. All the times I shut it down.
“You’re not moving out.”
My own voice echoes back in my head as her laugh rings loudly.
I exhale sharply.
That doesn’t mean anything.
I push the thought away and reach for something solid again.
“She stayed to finish the book.”
There it is. That makes sense. It fits. It’s clean. Simple.
My gaze drifts back to the hallway. To where the stack of books is sitting.
The sticky note from her publisher.
This is your best book yet.
My stomach twists slightly. She never said anything … not once.
I think back to every night she stayed up writing. Every time I asked what she was working on.
I lean back against the wall. Arms crossing over my chest.
She didn’t tell me what she was writing about or that she was using my personal, painful details.
The weight of it sits squarely on my shoulders. A quiet breath leaves my chest.
She would’ve told me.
Wouldn’t she?
The doubt settles in.
I push off the wall and walk back into the living room. The book is still sitting on the couch.
Waiting.
I pick it up again, slower this time, before I flip to another section.
The hero is sitting alone, pushing everyone away. Convincing himself he doesn’t need anyone.
My chest tightens again.
Because this time, I don’t feel exposed. I feel … seen.
The realization hits hard enough that I shut the book again immediately.
“No.”
The word is sharper now, with more force behind it.
I toss the book back down and step away from it because that thought … that one’s dangerous. If that’s true—if she saw me like that—then everything I said to her …
I drag a hand down my face again.
I exhale hard. No. I shake my head once.
That’s not what this is. It can’t be. She doesn’t know me like that. Nobody does.
But the certainty isn’t there anymore.
I don’t think about calling Dean. My phone is just in my hand. His name already on the screen.
He answers on the second ring. “What did you do?”
I frown. “Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you don’t call me at night unless you’ve either made a terrible decision or you’re about to.”
I huff out a quiet breath. “Good to know.”
“So, which one is it?” he asks.
“Already made it,” I say flatly.
There’s a pause.
“Oh, this should be good.”
I lean back against the counter, staring out into the empty apartment. “She left.”
Another pause.
“Define left.”
“She grabbed her purse and walked out.”
“And you let her?”
The question hits harder than it should.
I push past it. “She wrote a book.”
Dean is quiet for a second. “I’m sorry, what?”
“She wrote a book,” I repeat, my voice tightening. “And the main character—” I stop. I don’t even know how to say it without it sounding like exactly what it is.
Dean fills the silence. “Let me guess.”
I don’t answer.
He exhales. “It’s you.”
I clench my jaw. “It’s not exact. But it’s close.”
I don’t respond, which is answer enough.
Dean lets out a slow breath. “Okay.”
The calm in his voice immediately irritates me.
“Okay?” I repeat. “That’s your reaction?”
“What do you want me to say?” he asks.
“That she betrayed me.”
“Did she?”
I straighten slightly. “She took everything I told her and turned it into something to sell.”
“Is that what she did?” Dean asks.
“Yes.”
He exhales. “All right. I can see why that might piss you off.”
“Might?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he says. “Depends how close it is.”
“Close enough.”
“Did she write your actual life?” he asks.
“No.”
“Same people?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
The question hits a nerve because I don’t have a clean answer that doesn’t expose everything.
“It’s just … too close,” I say finally.
Dean waits. “Close how?”
I push off the counter and start pacing. “I don’t know. It’s just—”
“Specific?” he presses.
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
I stop. That’s exactly where the problem is. I can’t explain it without opening something I’ve spent years keeping shut.
“Forget it,” I mutter.
Dean doesn’t let it go. “No, don’t do that. You called me.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “She crossed a line.”
“I believe you,” he says. “If it feels like a line got crossed, then it probably did.”
The tension in my chest loosens slightly, but only slightly.
“But I need more than that,” he continues. “Because right now, it sounds like she wrote a character inspired by you, not exposed you.”
I force a breath through my nose. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t.”
The words come out harsher than I meant them to.
Dean pauses. “Why not?”
Because if I explain it—if I say it out loud—it becomes real. It becomes something someone else knows.
“I just can’t,” I say flatly.
Silence stretches across the line.
Dean’s voice shifts to something more serious. “Okay.”
I frown slightly. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Then I’m coming over.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Bullshit,” he says immediately.
“Dean—”
“You don’t call me like this and then shut down halfway through,” he cuts in. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a second, then drop it onto the counter. Part of me knows he’s not wrong.
* * *
The knock comes sooner than I expected.
I don’t move at first until it comes again. I push off the counter and walk to the door, pulling it open.
Dean takes one look at me, and his expression shifts.
“Yeah,” he says. “You look like shit.”
“Good to see you too.”
He walks past me into the apartment without waiting to be invited. His eyes scan the room quick. They land on the book sitting on the couch.
“That it?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t pick it up, nor does he touch it. He just looks back at me.
“All right,” he says, “start talking.”
I lean back against the wall and cross my arms. “I already told you what happened.”
“No,” he says calmly. “You told me the surface version.”
I don’t respond.
Dean watches me for a second. “What aren’t you telling me?”
The question lands exactly where he meant it to.
I look away and run a hand through my hair. “This isn’t your problem.”
“Too late,” he says. “You made it my problem when you called.”
Silence stretches between us.
He doesn’t push again. He just waits, which makes it worse.
I exhale slowly. “She wrote about things she shouldn’t have known.”
Dean’s brow furrows. “What things?”
I hesitate. “Things I told her.”
His expression shifts. Not judgment, just … understanding.
“Okay,” he says. “So, this isn’t about the book.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “It’s exactly about the book.”
“No,” he says. “It’s about what’s behind it.”
My jaw tightens. “Dean—”