Chapter Nineteen
The Wrong Kind of Quiet
Jace
The quiet in my office today has been the wrong kind. It’s not the productive, focused silence I usually thrive on; it’s the restless, static-filled weight that’s been following me since I left Sarah’s porch.
I can still feel the ghost of her touch, the way the air between us had turned thick and electric before she pulled back. She’d set a boundary, and I’d accepted it—not because I wanted to, but because Sarah isn't a woman you push.
She’s a woman you earn.
But that’s the problem. Being "gentlemanly" is a mask I’ve worn so long it’s fused to my skin. Her restraint unsettled me more than a flat-out rejection would have. It left me feeling unanchored, like I was floating in the space between the man I used to be and whoever the hell I’m becoming.
I can’t stand the thought of going back to the house. I don't want to stare at those four walls and think about divorce papers or social recovery plans.
I find myself pulling into the lot of The Bar.. It’s late, and the neon sign hums with a low buzz that matches the vibration in my nerves. I just need a drink, a bit of noise, and a moment where I don’t have to be the architect of anything.
The bar is relatively thin for a Tuesday, but the moment I step inside, the familiar smell of stale beer grounds me. I spot a familiar silhouette at the far end of the bar.
Griffin.
Usually, when our eyes meet, there’s an immediate wall that goes up. Griffin has always kept his distance, not out of hostility, but because I was Sierra’s husband. That alone was enough to define the space between us. I expect the usual edge—the stiff nod, the quick turn of the head.
But tonight, when Griffin looks up, his expression doesn’t harden. For a split second, I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen directed at me before. It’s not resentment. Not even the usual annoyance.
It’s… pity.
"Jace," he says, his voice unusually level. He doesn't move away. Instead, he taps the stool next to him. "Sit down. You look like shit. Long day?”
The invitation throws me. It’s not what he says—it’s how he says it. No bite. No dismissal. It feels dangerous, and my guard goes up.
Griffin has never made it a secret that he has no use for me.
I was tolerated because I was Sierra’s husband, nothing more.
The on-again, off-again history. A choice I’m sure he thinks lasted longer than it should have.
I fit into the version of her life that never changed, and that was enough to earn his resentment.
I expect the usual edge—the stiff nod, the quick turn of the head that tells me I’m already on borrowed patience.
But tonight, the edge never comes.
I sit, the leather on the stool creaking. The bartender slides a coaster toward me without a word, and I signal for whatever Griffin is drinking.
"Rough day?" Griffin asks. He isn't looking at me now; he’s staring at the reflection of the liquor bottles behind the bar. There’s a heaviness to his posture, a slump in his shoulders that matches the exhaustion I feel in my bones.
“Rough year,” I correct, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I scoff once. “You know…”
I don’t finish the thought.
I expect Griffin to snort, to deflect, to throw it back at me the way he usually does. Instead, he just nods slowly.
“Doesn’t ever really ease up, does it?” he murmurs.
I don’t answer but I glance at him, but he’s still staring at the bar like the answer’s etched into the wood.
“You’ve been carrying a lot for a long time,” he continues. “Showing up. Holding the line. Doing what you thought you were supposed to do.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something about it tightens my chest.
He pauses, and the air between us shifts. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, debating whether to jump.
“Some burdens aren’t yours to carry,” Griffin says, quieter now. “And some things were already broken long before you ever touched them.”
He takes another drink, eyes still forward. Doesn’t look at me when he adds, “Doesn’t stop people from blaming themselves for the collapse, though.”
My pulse jumps. That isn’t sympathy. It's an assessment. It’s the kind of thing you say when you know more than you’re letting on.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Griff?” I ask, keeping my voice even. “Because if you’re talking about my marriage, or Sierra, or whatever version of this you think you understand, just say it. I’m not in the mood for half-statements.”
Griffin looks at me and holds my gaze for a beat longer than is comfortable, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t want to be responsible for. For a second, I think he’s going to break and spill whatever’s clouding his eyes.
Instead, he exhales quietly and taps his glass against mine with a hollow clink.
“That’s the thing,” he says finally. “I’m not talking about what I understand.”
He takes a slow breath, eyes dropping to his glass.
“I’m talking about what I know better than to say out loud.”
My stomach tightens.
He looks back at me then, and there’s something in his expression that feels like restraint instead of distance. “Some truths don’t surface until the damage is already done,” he adds.
He stands, sliding a few bills onto the bar. “Go somewhere you can breathe, Jace.”
He pauses, just long enough to make sure I’m listening. “Some guilt doesn’t belong to you,” he says. “But it’ll still eat you alive if you let it.”
His jaw tightens once. “You didn’t start this,” he says. “Don’t die trying to carry it.”
Then he walks away before I can press him. I watch him go, his silhouette disappearing into the dim light of the entryway.
I stare after him, trying to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean—and why it feels like he just said more by leaving than he ever could’ve by staying.
The drink in front of me tastes like ash.
I thought I knew exactly what my past looked like—a failed marriage, a tragic loss, and a slow slide into a life I never really wanted.
But the way Griffin looked at me... it felt like he was mourning me.
Like my version of the truth was just a story someone else had written for me and that confuses the hell out of me.
I don’t finish the drink. I just stare at the amber liquid as it catches the glow of the lights above the bar. Griffin’s departure feels less like a goodbye and more like a sentence being handed down.
You didn’t start this, don’t die trying to carry it.
The words loop in my mind, like a needle stuck in a groove.
I’ve spent a long time believing I’m the one holding the hose, trying to douse the flames of Sierra’s unhappiness, her grief, her distance.
I think I’m the reason things are falling apart because I can’t be enough to fix what we lost. But Griffin—a man who’s looked at me with nothing but low-level disdain since the first time I showed up, is now telling me I’m just another victim. But a victim of what?
I stand, the legs of the stool scraping harshly against the floor. A few people turn to look, but I don’t care. I need air. I need to be somewhere the walls don’t feel like they’re closing in.
Outside, the night air hits differently, a contrast to the beer-soaked warmth of the bar. I walk to my car but don’t get in. I lean against the door, tilting my head back toward the sky, even though the town’s lights wash out most of the stars.
I think about Sarah.
I think about the way she looked at me on the porch—not as a role I was playing, or as someone standing in for a life I’m supposed to want—but as a man who’s barely keeping his head above water.
The fear hits me hard and sharp. Not of the divorce. Not of fallout or appearances or what anyone might say.
I’m terrified that if I keep choosing what’s expected instead of what’s true, I’ll wake up one day and realize I never actually lived my own life. Just filled it with stand-ins. Moments that looked right from the outside but never held anything real.
How do you move forward when you start to suspect the ground beneath you is hollow?
I told Sarah I’d come back. That I’d give her space, to breathe and trust that I meant what I said.
Standing in this parking lot, with Griffin’s words still echoing in my head, I realize how hard that promise is going to be between now and morning. Because showing up without pushing means sitting with myself for the rest of tonight. And I don’t recognize the man I’m left alone with.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. Sarah’s name sits there in my contacts, familiar and too easy. I want to call her. I want to tell her the world feels like it’s shifting on its axis and she’s the only thing that feels solid.
But I don’t.
Instead, I grip the phone until my knuckles ache and shove it back into my pocket. If I’m going to be the man she deserves, I can’t use her as another shield. I need to understand what Griffin knows. I need to figure out what kind of fire I’ve been standing in.
I get into the car and start the engine.
The headlights cut through the dark of the lot, illuminating the road ahead.
I don't head toward my house. I just drive, letting the lines on the road pull me deeper into the night, realizing for the first time that the truth wasn't just coming—it was already here.
I just hadn't been brave enough to look it in the eye yet.
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway. It sits still and ordinary, lights off, windows blank, the kind of place that looks like it should feel settled by now. Instead, it feels emptied out.
I let myself in, the security system chirping softly before falling silent again. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t need to. I know this place by heart, every corner and creak, but tonight it still feels unfamiliar. Like I’m walking through something I built without ever fully moving into.