Chapter 13
Michael
Are you just going to ignore me now?
I don’t understand what the fuck your problem is.
After all these years, you’re going to ghost me?!
Ayden, I swear to god if you don’t fucking respond to me.
I’d silenced my phone when we got to the bar, because I just wanted to focus on the present. I knew it was stupid to look at it while there.
Fucking idiot, Ayden.
Michael, I’m out right now. I’ll text you later.
I shouldn’t have texted him back in the bathroom. I should have left it alone until I got home because he immediately called me… and I ignored it.
Ignored him…
I’d quickly ordered the Uber from the bathroom and turned my phone off with shaky hands.
I know ignoring him like that is going to hurt me in the future. Still, the fear of not being able to hide whatever happened on that call outweighed the consequences of ignoring him.
Didn’t matter. Keoni may as well have physically punched me before we got into the Uber. I would’ve preferred it—at least bruises fade. Ice works on swelling. But the kind of blow he dealt me? It cracked something inside that can’t be patched with bandages.
My mind feels shattered, and no amount of glue will ever make it whole again. I hope I’ll be able to salvage the cracks into something worth keeping—or risk falling further into the hollow black hole I’ve carved for myself.
When the car rolls to a stop at the cabin, Keoni’s out before I can even open my door, and storming into Wildhart without so much as a glance back.
I don’t follow. Instead, I veer left, walk straight to the lakeshore, and stop with my back to the water.
For half a second, I wish something down there would reach up, drag me under, and replace this constant suffocating drama with a different kind of silence.
My hand trembles as I look down at the phone clenched in my palm.
Go inside. Deal with it in the morning.
I want to trust my inner voice, but it hasn’t led me anywhere good in the last eight years.
Turning on the device, I wait for service to show me how many texts he fired at me. But… I’m met with nothing. No new messages.
This silence terrifies me more than anything else could.
I open the phone app, tap Michael’s number, and hit dial.
My heart summersaults with every… single… ring.
On and on. No answer.
A chill rips through me, and it has nothing to do with the cold night air.
When the line finally clicks to voicemail, it’s like a dam breaks—every conversation we’ve ever had comes rushing back at once, crashing over me in jagged, merciless waves.
Every single word.
“You bring this on yourself, Ayden.”
“If you’d just fucking listen, it wouldn’t have to be this way.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you enjoy being talked to like this. Do you enjoy being degraded? It seems to be the only way you’ll hear me. Some sorta kink with you?”
“Fucking useless!”
The beep echoes slowly in my ear.
“H-Hey… I… didn’t mean to not answer. I-I’m sorry. Call me back?” I swallow, and I could swear my vision blurs. “I’m sorry. I’m not ignoring you. I… I’m not.”
The phone auto-hangs after I let silence eat up the voicemail. I peel it from my face, stare at the screen, and hit dial again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, the same end. Voicemail.
By the fourth attempt, I can’t breathe. My chest is hollow and heavy all at once, panic clawing its way inside me.
My knees slam into the damp ground. The cold bites through denim—sharper, crueler. I fold forward, clutching my shirt desperately, as if I can drag the air back into my lungs with my fists.
Stupid.
So fucking stupid.
I should’ve answered at the bar.
He’s in California. He can’t come here.
He won’t. He doesn’t know where I’m at.
He can look into county records. He’s a cop, his dad’s the chief. He’s got connections.
The moment black dots scatter across my vision, a soft meow yanks me from the crater I’ve fallen into. Clover is padding toward me until she’s curled across my thighs. The weight of her body forces me upright, and just like that, oxygen floods in. My lungs remembering how to work.
She all but hisses at me until I draw a shaky hand down her back. With each pass, the terror ebbs like it was never there, replaced by the low rumble of her purr.
Eyes shut, chin tucked, I let the night fill me instead; the push of water against shore, Clover’s steady purring, and the faint thud of a screen door.
My chest jolts—Keo?
There are no accompanying footsteps that follow. I don’t look. I don’t want proof that no one’s coming.
That he’s not coming to help me.
I don’t know how long I sit here, ten minutes or twenty, but when I stand with Clover in my arms, my heart is still caught in my throat.
If someone told me this cat was made of magic, I wouldn’t even question it. Though, I do wonder how she even got out. Had she pushed the screen door open? Maybe Keo left the door open. That seems dangerous, considering I could swear she’s a housecat.
When I step into the cabin, the living room is empty, but I can see the bathroom light glowing from down the hall toward Keo’s room.
For a moment, I imagine telling him everything—that I never came because of Michael, that I’ve been chained in a place I’ve wanted to escape for years.
The fantasy I play in my head is that Keo is furious for me; books a flight to California to beat the shit out of my ex.
But in reality? I fear he’d just tell me to grow a backbone.
And maybe he’s right. Because even free, I feel locked inside—no doors, no windows, no way out. I keep circling back, like the walls follow me wherever I go.
Mike should’ve just let me go to jail. He’s basically built me one, threw me in it, and tossed away the key.
The groan that escapes my throat feels raw.
I clear it, but the clogging ache lingers. Something heavy and warm presses against my head, and it takes me a beat to realize it’s Clover. She’s turned me into her personal pillow.
Just as I’ve turned the couch into a bed.
The fireplace comes into focus, flames dancing beneath the TV hung above. The blaze surprises me almost as much as the blanket draped over my chest. Outside, the early morning light seeps weakly through the window. It’s too early for how bone-deep tired I feel.
I shift just enough to tug the blanket up toward my chin. Clover doesn’t move, and that’s fine. I’ve got no plans to either.
I don’t even remember closing my eyes last night, let alone lying down. I feel like I’m coming down from a hangover, even if I hadn’t drank.
Another groan flows through my slightly parted lips. My body feels like I’ve been wrung out and hung to dry.
“Coffee?”
My eyes snap open at the husky voice. It takes everything in me not to jolt upright and send Clover flying. I move carefully instead, giving her time to leap down before I push myself up.
I spot Keo standing in the kitchen to my left. He’s holding the pot of coffee—which smells phenomenal—and in his other, my mug. The chipped white ceramic with the crooked black letters: Right Turn.
It’s silly, really, but I’ve been using the same one since I moved in. Dad had given Alysa and me the pair as a joke for our eighteenth birthday—‘Now that you’ll be losing sleep, you’ll need it,’ he’d said.
Hers says ‘Left Turn’ and sits in the cupboard. I make an effort to put them beside each other when putting away the dishes.
Seeing mine in Keo’s hand now feels oddly satisfying. There are at least seven other mugs, but he knew to grab that one.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” I quickly say. “Yes, please.”
His chest expands on his intake of air. “No need to be so polite, jeez.”
He pours the coffee into the cup before placing the pot back into its machine. After adding milk and sugar, he walks around the dining room table and into the living room.
He’s wearing plaid pajama pants with a loose white T-shirt, and before I start checking him out, I take the mug he has outstretched to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, eyes on the cup. The color is perfect, just how I like it, and the aroma promises it’s been sweetened just right.
“Mhmm.”
I expect him to walk away, back into the kitchen or to his room to get ready for his morning jog. Except he doesn’t—he sits on the sofa beside me.
He stays a foot or so away so we aren’t touching, leans back, and drapes his left arm—the one furthest from me—over the back of the couch. His gaze stays fixed on the fireplace, and before he can catch me staring at him, I shift my eyes forward.
I don’t say anything, just sip the warm beverage. It settles a heat in my chest that makes me sigh.
“Remember when Alysa got her SAT results?” Honestly, I’m shocked he’s even talking to me. I slowly turn my head, eyes widening, as he continues, stoic and unreadable, “I think it was like, what, 1415?”
“1420,” I correct softly. “Do you remember how she reacted?”
The corner of his mouth quirks upward, and oh my god—how had I forgotten how handsome his smile was? “It was like the end of the world.”
A huff of a laugh escapes me. “Pretty sure she cried for a full twenty-four hours.”
He looks at me, eyes flicking to my lips. The low hum he lets out before meeting my gaze sends a tight, warming sensation right to my stomach.
“It’s sorta your dad’s fault for allowing her to do it at sixteen, even if her score was incredible.”
I nod, and take another drink of coffee. “She retook it, and got a worse score.”
“Yeah, she told me one Christmas…” He trails off with a sigh, and of course I had to say the wrong thing. I part my lips to apologize, but he keeps going before I can, “What, 1400?”
The grip around my heart loosens, and I clear my throat. “1395.”
Both corners of his mouth lift, revealing those perfect white teeth in full. “Oh nooo.”
I chuckle, and set the mug down between my thighs, staring down into it. “Yeah. Totally the end of the world.”
Silence falls over us, but for the first time since coming back into each other’s lives, it isn’t awkward or forced. It’s calm, steady, and oddly comforting. If this is how we were to spend our time together in the cabin, not ignoring each other’s existence, I feel like I’d be okay with that.
Even if I’d take more… So much more.
The sound of Clover crunching her dry food might have ruined the moment, if not for Keo’s quiet sigh.
“Thirty days, Ayden.” Before fear, pain, and my overactive mind can race to the worst possible scenario, like I need to leave within that time, he continues, “I want you to find it in you to tell me why you never came here. I feel like thirty days is a good amount of time.”
I turn back to him, and he has his eyes fixated on me. It has me licking my lips, drawing his attention to them. “I’ll give you the time to trust me again.”
“I-It’s not that.” My stomach ties into painful knots. “It’s not you—”
He raises his hand and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what it is.” His sigh is filled with so many unspoken words. “I’m angry at you, but I don’t want to be. This isn’t how I want us to be… I can see you’re struggling. You can’t tell me what’s going on with you, but you want to…”
I nod my head slowly. It’s so minuscule, I’m surprised he can see it.
“Alright then.” He releases a long breath. “I’m sorry for reacting like I did last night. It’s why I’m in therapy.” That shocks the hell out of me. “I’m working on it.”
I want to ask why the sudden shift in his attitude toward me. He’d gone from completely ignoring me, completely shutting me out… to this? Making me coffee, laughing with me, to even telling me he’s in therapy.
Then I think about last night—Clover being out. Had he actually seen me?
Embarrassment crashes over me, sudden and sharp, and because of it, I don’t want confirmation that’s the case.
To be honest, it doesn’t matter the why. I’ll take this change.
Because he’s right, I want to tell him, but I’m just not ready. If he were the same Keo before my graduation party, I’d not hesitate to tell him what happened, but I fear what he’ll do.
I want to see my Keo, even if I don’t yet deserve that.
To feel safe again with him… Because when I tell him the reason why I never came, the reason why I never saw him after that night, or lacked the ability to see our parents more than just a few times in the span of eight years, I need to know he won’t just drop off the face of the Earth—again.
It’s too late to have any relationship with my dad, or Leilani, but I don’t want it to be with Keoni. Whether we stay as we are now, friends, or something more.
“What happens if I can’t tell you within thirty days?” I ask, genuinely curious. Will he actually kick me out?
His deep chuckle accompanies him standing. “You’ll see. Part of me hopes you don’t so I can show you.”
A sudden rush of heat rises from my neck straight to my face. “What?”
“Going for my run. Don’t forget to eat.” He laughs.
That deep, timbered mirth fading with him as he leaves, and for the first time in years, a weight presses down on me—in all the right ways.
I don’t feel like I’m about to drift into space, but instead, am anchored to the ground. And it’s exactly where I want to stay.
Thirty days. I can do that… I want to do it.