Chapter 24 53 days before the breakup
The months after Grace’s engagement moved faster than I expected.
Somewhere between puppy training, weekend trips that blurred together, and trying to keep up with deadlines, whole months slipped by.
Things with Cole weren’t bad—not exactly.
We still cooked together, still had our routines, still laughed sometimes.
But it didn’t feel effortless anymore. I kept telling myself it was just a busy season, that every couple goes through phases where things feel heavier.
Winston was supposed to help too. Training a puppy should’ve been a team effort, the kind of stress that you look back on and laugh about.
Sometimes it was, like when he learned a new trick or curled up between us on the couch.
But other times it was just tense. Who was walking him more, who was stricter, who left their shoes out for him to destroy.
I tried not to think too hard about how those little arguments didn’t feel so little when they piled up.
I figured it was normal. Relationships aren’t always light and playful.
They ebb and flow. That’s what I chose to believe anyway.
As I stirred the marinara sauce, the scent of garlic and basil filled the kitchen.
It was late afternoon, that golden hour when the sun filters through the windows and everything looks just a little softer.
I gave the sauce one last stir, hoping Cole would be back soon with Winston so we could eat while it was hot.
When the front door opened, I heard Winston’s paws tapping on the laminate floor. “Hey, buddy,” I said, kneeling down to ruffle his ears.
Cole walked in behind him, unhooking the leash and looking slightly out of breath. “Didn’t realize I was signing up for a marathon today,” he said with a tired laugh. “He wanted to sniff every single dog we passed.”
“He’s got a reputation to maintain. Babies to kiss, old ladies to help across roads, that sort of thing. Thanks for taking him so I could finish cooking.”
“Yeah, no problem.” He dropped the leash on the hook and headed to the sink. “I actually ran into Brad from work—you know, from finance. He invited me to join some new pickleball league. Said a bar opened with a ton of courts. Sounds fun, right?”
I handed him a glass of water. “You’re really into pickleball lately.”
Cole grinned, sipping. “It’s competitive, fast-paced, kind of addicting.”
“Maybe you could teach me?” I asked.
He looked at me over the rim of his glass. “Only if you don’t expect me to let you win.”
I laughed, relieved. There it was. One of those little moments that reminded me of when we first started dating—light and playful. I leaned against the counter, hoping tonight would stay that way.
After dinner, Cole headed for a shower while I did the dishes. I tried to remember the last time we had sex. My birthday? Over a month ago. Was that normal? I wasn’t sure anymore.
I poured us each another glass of wine and set them on the nightstand.
Then I dug through the back of my drawer for the black lingerie I’d had since college.
It still fit, barely. I adjusted the straps, fixed my hair, and told myself we were fine.
We just needed a spark. A reminder. Staring at my reflection for a minute too long, I realized the lingerie felt like a costume.
Like I was trying to become the version of myself he might still want.
So I grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on over top.
When Cole stepped into the bedroom, his hair damp, his skin warm from the shower, I moved toward him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. It started slowly, tentative. We were trying. Or at least I was.
His hands slid under my sweatshirt and landed on the clasp of my bra. I could feel him fumbling, trying to undo it with one hand, then two, then sighing. Was he annoyed or embarrassed? I couldn’t tell.
“I got it,” I whispered, reaching back.
He didn’t say anything, just pushed the straps down and kissed me again.
I wasn’t turned on, not even a little. I kept waiting for something to click.
A moment where we’d lock eyes and laugh or slow down or feel something, but it didn’t come.
He reached between my legs. I wasn’t ready, but he didn’t notice—just slipped in two fingers, mechanical and familiar but not intimate.
I closed my eyes and begged my body to catch up.
To want this. To want him. I wished he’d kiss my neck, drag his tongue along my collarbone, do anything that made me feel desired instead of checked off a list.
“Kiss my neck,” I whispered.
He did. It helped. Barely.
When he finally pushed inside me, it hurt—not sharp enough to stop but enough to make me blink hard at the ceiling and wonder how the hell we’d gotten here.
His eyes were closed, his breathing quickening, and I felt myself drift.
Not in a good way. Not in the way you lose yourself to someone.
In the way you realize you’re utterly alone even with someone’s body on top of yours.
When it was over, he didn’t kiss me. He didn’t even look at me. Just rolled over and went to sleep, as if the whole thing had been a chore he’d checked off before bed. I stayed still, waiting for the comfort that never came. Waiting to feel wanted, reassured, loved. What I felt instead was small.
Looking back now, I think that was the moment I knew. Not consciously. Not enough to say it out loud or admit it to myself, but deep down, something in me recognized that we were already slipping away.
I pulled on a sweatshirt and slipped out of bed.
At my desk, I opened my journal and started to write just to get it out.
The disappointment. The distance. The feeling of being unwanted in my own relationship.
I didn’t hold back. I scribbled until my hand cramped, until the words started looping in circles.
When there was nothing left to say, I reached for my laptop instead.
And that’s when it happened. Instead of more venting, my fingers started typing something else—something hotter, hungrier.
A scene of the kind of sex I wished I’d just had.
The kind that left you breathless and clinging to each other like the world might end.
The kind that made you feel seen. Worshipped.
It was the first time in weeks I felt something close to inspired.
I didn’t stop. I wrote and wrote, chasing the version of connection I couldn’t find in real life.
It was nearly two a.m. when I finally closed the laptop and tiptoed back to bed. Cole was asleep, peaceful, arms folded over his chest like nothing was wrong. Maybe he missed the beginning too. Maybe we could find our way back.
Tomorrow, I told myself. I’d bring it up tomorrow.
* * *
Cole’s voice startled me awake the next morning.
“Ainsley.”
His tone wasn’t angry. It was quieter than that—uneasy, like he’d been up for hours rehearsing.
I blinked, still groggy, as my heart picked up speed.
The bedroom was awash in that gray morning light that makes everything look softer than it feels.
Cole stood in the doorway, still in last night’s clothes, holding my journal in one hand like it was something dangerous.
“What is this?” he asked, not meeting my eyes.
My throat went dry as I sat up. “Why were you reading that?”
“It was open.” His grip on it tightened. “I was looking for my charger. I didn’t mean to read it, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. You wrote all this last night?”
I nodded slowly.
Cole flipped another page, scanning. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw flexed. “I didn’t realize you were this unhappy.”
For a second, I thought about backpedaling. I could chalk it up to being fiction, an exercise, just me blowing off steam in dramatic prose. That would’ve been easier. Safer even. But this was the conversation I said I’d bring up today, so I guessed this was my chance to.
“Of course you didn’t. You don’t ask. You don’t look at me anymore.”
His head snapped up. “That’s not fair.”
“You’ve never even read one of my books,” I said, raising my voice, “but now you’re standing there dissecting my journal like you actually care?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is to me. Because both of those things are me, and you’ve been choosing not to see them.”
He dropped the journal on the dresser like it was burning his hand. “You’re acting like I’ve abandoned you.”
“Haven’t you?” My voice cracked. “You’re always at work or playing pickleball. Do you know what it feels like to sit around every night, wondering when you’ll finally decide you have time for me?”
Something flickered across his face then, guilt maybe, but he looked away before I could read it. “You think I don’t feel it too? That distance? You’re not the only one who’s unhappy.”
“Why haven’t you said anything? Why have you let me think it’s all me?” I asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. “Because I don’t know how to fix it, Ains. I thought if I kept showing up, it would reset.”
“News flash,” I said bitterly. “Avoiding me isn’t showing up.”
The room went still, Winston snoring softly in the corner.
Finally, I whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Neither do I.” He said it too fast, almost as if it were a reflex.
I looked up, eyes burning. “Then prove it, because right now it feels like I’m the only one still in this.”
He hesitated, then stepped forward, slow and careful, like he wasn’t sure he should. “I want to try.”
I let him pull me into his arms, my cheek pressed to his chest where I could hear his heartbeat. His arms were warm and familiar, but the comfort wasn’t the same. It felt like hugging the memory of him instead of the man standing in front of me.
When he left for work a few minutes later, I stayed in bed. The apartment was quiet again—peaceful almost—but the thought kept circling like a vulture: He didn’t look me in the eye once.