Chapter 19 Knox
Chapter nineteen
Knox
Iwake up with a pit in my stomach.
Not because I’m hurting from celebrating or sore from last night’s game—though I probably should be. We won again. Second week in a row. The town’s buzzing, the team’s riding high, and by all accounts, I should be on top of the world.
But all I can think about is Brynn.
Brynn, curled up on her couch, feverish and too pale. Her voice was rough last night, her cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with how she used to look at me. And when I came back with that ridiculous armful of supplies, she stared at me like I was someone she didn’t quite recognize.
Maybe I didn’t recognize myself either.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, scrubbing a hand over my face like I can wipe the memory clean. I don’t know why I need to take care of you. I said that. Out loud.
That’s not something you say to your ex-girlfriend. Not when you’re trying to be casual. Friendly. Civil.
That’s a line. And I crossed it.
Priscilla lets out a soft sigh from the floor, like even she knows I’m spiraling. I reach down and scratch behind her ears. She licks my hand, steady and loyal. The one living thing in my life who doesn’t make it complicated.
I wish my brain worked the same way.
I tell myself not to check on Brynn. Don’t knock. Don’t bring her soup or some overpriced immunity juice shot from Lowry’s she’d never actually drink. Just leave it alone.
But my phone’s already in my hand. And her number’s already saved. Again.
I’d deleted it a long time ago, thinking it was the smart thing to do. Like erasing her contact would erase the part of me that still waited for her.
But after the heater incident, I added it back. I told myself it was only because she’s a tenant.
Now it’s staring back at me, like my self-preservation plan didn’t just consider abandoning ship.
My thumb hovers over the screen. I type. Delete. Type again.
Morning. Just checking in. Are you feeling better?
Simple. Harmless. The kind of message any decent landlord might send.
I stare at the screen, feeling a little foolish. Like I’m not already halfway to falling into old patterns.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?
She’s back. And everything I buried six years ago is clawing its way to the surface—all from one night, one fever, one too-familiar ache in my chest when I saw her curled up in a blanket, miserable and stubborn and still so goddamn her.
I press a hand to the back of my neck, gripping tight like I can contain all the guilt and want and confusion in one spot and make it manageable.
I need to keep my distance. She’s not mine. Hasn’t been for a long time. And I can’t mistake whatever this is for something real. Not again.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I lunge for it before it even finishes vibrating.
Brynn: Alive-ish. My fever broke. Pretty sure a small demon is living behind my eyes, but the heating pad is helping. Also, thanks for the stuffed bunny. His emotional support has been crucial in my recovery.
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself, tension easing just enough to ache in my shoulders.
Another buzz.
Brynn: Also, did you buy the entire pharmacy? Pretty sure I could survive the apocalypse with what you left on my coffee table.
She’s joking. Teasing. Being Brynn in a way that’s so familiar it wraps around me like muscle memory.
My thumbs hover, ready to respond. I want to tell her she’s welcome. That I’m glad she’s okay. That I bought the bunny because it reminded me of her, and I didn’t know what that meant until I left her place and couldn’t stop thinking about it.
But I don’t say any of that.
I type:
Me: Glad you’re feeling better. Let me know if you need anything.
It’s clean and brief—no emojis, no flirting, no softness that might invite her to say something I’m not ready to hear.
I set my phone face down on the counter like it’s radioactive.
Because right now, it kind of is. This is how it starts: the easy texts, the recycled jokes, the way we slip back into old rhythms like no time has passed. Familiar. Dangerous.
I don’t want to be that guy again—the one who waits, who hopes, who quietly makes space for someone already building a life without him.
So I draw the line. This is it. Just a check-in.
A text. Nothing more. She doesn’t need me, and I sure as hell don’t need to fall into something that already broke me once. Boundary set.
And if I keep repeating it enough times, maybe—eventually—I’ll start to believe it.
When I step through the front door of my parents’ house on Sunday evening, the tension I’ve been carrying all week starts to melt off my shoulders.
This place always does that. My mother chatting in the kitchen, the low murmur of the TV from the living room, the familiar creak of the floorboard near the stairs—it’s the soundtrack of a life I haven’t outgrown, even if I’ve tried.
I shut the door behind me and take a deep breath, catching the unmistakable promise of Sunday dinner: garlic, rosemary, and something roasted to perfection. Mom’s cooking.
I sigh like I just dropped my whole week on the welcome mat.
“Shoes off,” Mom calls from the kitchen, not even glancing up.
“I’m not a heathen,” I mutter, toeing off my boots like I do every single Sunday.
“Debatable,” Dad chimes in from his recliner in the living room. “We saw your postgame interview. You said ‘hell’ on local television.”
“I said ‘played like hell.’ It was a compliment.”
He peers at me over the top of his reading glasses, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Still proud of you. That was a damn fine win.”
“Two in a row,” I say, unable—and unwilling—to hide the grin spreading across my face. “Boys are starting to believe.”
“They should,” he says, his voice softer now. “You’re a good coach.”
That one lands deep. Hits somewhere I don’t talk about much. Because coming from him, it matters.
I pass through the living room and into the kitchen where Mom’s orchestrating enough food to feed a high school roster.
There’s a perfectly golden chicken resting on the counter, steam curling off the skin like a commercial.
Mashed potatoes in a big blue bowl. Carrots coated with butter.
She’s making gravy like the fate of the world depends on it.
“I thought you said you were keeping it simple this week,” I say, peering into the pot.
“It’s just chicken.”
“Yeah, and three sides. And a pie.”
She shrugs, but her mouth twitches. “Winning deserves good food.”
We sit down, dig in, pass the plates like clockwork. It’s warm. Comfortable. A world away from the tangle of emotions I left behind on Brynn’s porch last night.
Still, somewhere between the potatoes and second helpings, I know I have to say something. I need her help.
“Hey, Mom?”
She looks up, halfway through slicing a roll. “Hm?”
“I’ve been thinking…if you still wanted to set me up with someone—like, seriously this time—I might be open to it.”
Her hand stills on the knife. “You?”
Dad glances over his tea, suddenly interested.
“Yeah,” I say, fighting the urge to backpedal. “I mean it. A real date. Not just you sending me to dinner with a fictional woman and acting surprised when Brynn’s there at the same time.”
Mom freezes. Then lifts one perfectly innocent eyebrow. “Are you accusing me of matchmaking?”
“I’m accusing you of criminally bad timing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, folding her napkin too neatly.
“Same restaurant, same time, animals named after baked goods,” I say. “That wasn’t a coincidence.”
“I thought the names were cute,” she mutters.
Dad snorts into his glass.
“I’m serious, Mom,” I say, quieter now. “I think I’m ready to actually meet someone. No complicated past. No history to sort through. Just…new.”
She studies me for a second too long. “You’re sure?”
“I think it’s time,” I lie.
She doesn’t argue, but her smile dims just slightly. It’s soft. Faintly sad. Like she’s holding back all the things she’s not saying. That she always loved Brynn. That maybe she still thinks we could work, if we just got over ourselves.
But I can’t keep doing this dance. Not when every look, every memory, every quiet moment between walls that used to hold us is turning me inside out.
“Okay,” she finally says. “I’ll think about it. But I’m not setting you up with the girl from yoga class again. You hated her.”
“She tried to make me meditate in the parking lot.”
“Your chakras are probably still blocked,” Dad laughs.
I roll my eyes, but I’m already halfway into the next bite of chicken, chewing like it’s going to help push down the ache in my chest.
Because the truth is, I don’t want a new girl. I should, though. I should want something easy, clean, untouched by the kind of heartbreak that still knots in my chest when Brynn walks into a room. But that’s not how it works, and deep down, I know it.
I asked to be set up because I’m slipping. I’m falling back into the familiar curves of something that once destroyed me. The sound of her laugh, the look in her eyes when she thinks I’m not paying attention, the way she still says my name. I know it’s all dangerous.
So I chew my dinner like it’ll quiet the noise in my chest and nod along while Mom rattles off potential yoga-class rejects.