Chapter Fourteen #2
“Do what?”
That’s when she looks at me like she knows exactly what I’m about to say and she’s bracing for it anyway. Apologies weren’t our problem. We said them a lot. We just never fixed the part underneath.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and the words come out rougher than I want. “For… all of it. I wish things had been different.”
Sierra swallows once. Her gaze drops to my hands like she’s avoiding my eyes on purpose. “Jace.”
“I mean it.” I step closer, just enough that it feels like a choice. “You deserved better than me.”
That finally pulls her gaze back up. There’s no anger in it. Just the kind of hurt that’s too old to be sharp anymore.
“I deserved better than what we became,” she says quietly. “I don’t know if that’s the same thing.”
That hits hard because she’s right.
I nod once. “Fair.”
Silence stretches. Not hostile, just heavy.
She shifts again, the folder creasing slightly in her grip. “This isn’t how it was meant to go, I’m sorry it came to this.”
“I understand, I appreciate that.”
“Good.” She gives a small, controlled breath. “I hope you figure out what you actually want.”
I don’t answer fast enough and she notices.
Her eyes soften for one beat, then she steps to the side to pass me. Her perfume trails behind her, faint and familiar.
At the door, she pauses without turning fully around. “Take care of yourself.”
I blink, because it feels like mercy.
“You too,” I manage.
She nods once and leaves.
Outside, the air is crisp. Bright. A little too sharp for how steady my heartbeat feels.
I pull my phone from my pocket before I can overthink it.
Sierra’s name sits at the top of my messages, unread but not unanswered. We’ve spoken. We’ve agreed. We’ve been careful with each other in a way that feels earned.
I type slowly.
Thank you for how you handled today. I hope you find what you need.
I stare at it for a second, then hit send.
No apology. No justification. Just respect.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and head for my truck.
The drive should feel different.
It doesn’t.
The road unfolds the same way it always does, familiar and indifferent.
Traffic lights cycle from red to green. A stop sign flashes in my peripheral.
A couple of pedestrians take their time crossing the street, laughing about something I’ll never hear.
No one out here knows what I just signed away. No one slows down for it.
I turn the radio on without really thinking, then shut it off again a few seconds later when the noise feels too intrusive.
My hands adjust on the steering wheel, loosening, tightening, like they’re testing how much control I actually have.
The speed limit sign passes unnoticed. I’m not in a hurry.
I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right to rush anything.
A car behind me honks when the light turns green and I hesitate half a beat too long. I ease forward, muttering an apology no one hears. Red. Green. Yield. Brake. The rules out here are simple, and for a moment, I let myself focus on that instead of everything else.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as an image of Sarah cuts through my thoughts without permission.
The Brew House.
The way her eyes widened just slightly when she looked up and saw me, like her body reacted before she could stop it. Brian across from her, relaxed and present, close enough that it shouldn’t have mattered and still did — like he wasn’t carrying the history I was.
The brush of her fingers against mine when we both reached for her keys.
The way my entire body locked up like something ancient and unmanageable had been woken up with one touch.
I swallow hard, jaw tightening.
I hated myself in that moment.
Not for wanting her. That part has never been the problem.
I hated myself for how obvious it was. For the way I couldn’t hide it even when I tried. For the way my presence turned a simple apology coffee into something tense and complicated and unfair to her.
To Brian.
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
Neither had she.
I turn without thinking about it.
Not toward my house.
Toward hers.
The decision happens in my hands first. A right turn. A familiar stretch of road. The kind of muscle memory I don’t want to admit I have, because it means I’ve driven this way more than I should.
I tell myself it’s nothing.
‘Just to see.’
Like that’s a harmless reason.
By the time her street comes into view, my heart is beating too hard for a man who just signed papers like he didn’t feel anything.
I slow down.
Her house sits there like it always has. Ordinary. Quiet. A couple cars in driveways up the road. A dog barking somewhere nearby.
No sign of her in the yard.
No dramatic moment waiting for me.
Just the simple fact that she’s inside that space, living her life, trying to do the right thing, and I’m outside like a coward with a steering wheel in my hands.
I pull to the curb and kill the engine.
The silence is immediate, thick.
My phone sits in the console like it’s watching me.
I don’t pick it up.
I stare at her front door.
It would be so easy to walk up. Knock. Say something careful. Say something honest. Say ‘I’m free now’ like that would fix anything.
But I can’t walk to her door with this still all over me.
Ink on my hands. Guilt in my chest. A whole life of choosing the responsible thing and calling it love.
If I knock right now, it won’t be about her.
It’ll be about relief.
About wanting her to take this weight off my ribs because I don’t know how to carry it alone yet.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.
I see The Brew House again.
Sarah’s face when I walked in.
Brian’s polite smile.
Her keys dropping.
Our fingers brushing.
The way my body reacted like it had been starving.
I open my eyes and stare at her door again.
‘Not like this.’
Because if I’m going to step into her life, I’m not doing it as the man who shows up the second he’s legally allowed to.
I’m doing it as the man who can look her in the eyes and give her something solid.
Something she doesn’t have to guess at.
My hands tighten around nothing.
I sit there another minute. Then another.
Finally, I start the truck.
I pull away from the curb without knocking, without calling, without giving in to the part of me that wants to believe one brave moment fixes years of fear.
As I turn the corner, my chest aches in a way that feels almost clean.
Not relief.
Not yet.
But intention.
Soon.
Just not like this.