Chapter 53
Ethan
The wind picks up, playful, teasing loose strands from her braid. Honey-blonde hair escapes and brushes her cheek, her neck. She absently tucks it back, fingers gentle, unaware of the way my gaze tracks the movement.
She’s wearing a simple dress, soft fabric that moves with her, that hugs her in a way that feels both modest and devastating. The curve of her waist, the familiar slope of her shoulders, it all hits me with a force I wasn’t prepared for.
There was a time she would’ve been sitting on my lap instead of across from me.
We were that couple. The one people rolled their eyes at. Always touching. Always laughing. Always wrapped up in each other like the rest of the world was background noise.
And I destroyed it.
The weight of that realization presses down on me, heavy and relentless.
How did I break something so good?
The question has no answer that doesn’t make me hate myself a little more.
She’s still smiling, still caught in the memory of Jenny, and the sight of it hurts in a way that’s almost unbearable.
The words slip out before I can stop them.
“I wish you’d never met me.”
The smile fades instantly.
Her eyes flicker, pain flashing across her face so quickly it nearly guts me.
“Ethan.”
“I mean it,” I say softly, urgently, leaning forward without crossing the space between us. “If you hadn’t… if I hadn’t been part of your life, maybe you wouldn’t have been hurt the way you were. Maybe I wouldn’t be… this scar you carry.”
Her breath catches. She goes very still.
For a moment, I think I’ve said too much. That I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross.
Then she exhales slowly and looks away, thoughtful instead of angry.
“If you’d asked me that a few weeks ago,” she says quietly, “I might’ve agreed with you.”
My chest tightens.
“But now?” She turns back to me, eyes clear despite the sadness there. “Now I don’t think I do.”
I frown.
“I lumped everything together for a long time,” she continues. “All the pain, all the hurt. I put it in one box and labeled it misery and tried not to open it.”
She pauses, fingers curling in the fabric of her dress. “But lately… I’ve been sorting through it. And when I do, I can see that I was happy too. Really happy. You’re not just the reason I was hurt. You’re also part of why I know what happiness feels like.”
Her voice is steady, but the truth of her words knocks the air from my lungs.
I swallow hard, my throat burning.
How could I have hurt the best person I know?
The guilt rises, thick and suffocating, and for a moment I have to look away, blinking hard.
“I don’t deserve that kind of grace,” I say hoarsely.
She watches me closely now. Not guarded. Curious. As if she’s seeing me.
“I see you differently now,” she says after a moment.
That gets my attention.
“How?”
“Solid,” she says thoughtfully. “Respectful. Dependable.”
My chest cracks open at that.
“I’m trying,” I admit.
“I know,” she replies.
We sit there in the quiet, the past and present tangled between us like threads neither of us quite knows how to pull apart.
I don’t tell her I still love her.
I don’t tell her that every instinct in me wants to reach across the space and pull her into my arms, to feel the weight of her against me, to reassure myself she’s real and here and not just another thing I’ve lost.
I don’t tell her that wanting her still feels dangerous.
Because loving her means putting her happiness above my own.
And right now, her happiness doesn’t include me.
The night deepens around us, the porch light casting long shadows. Inside, Lily stirs and settles again, the bear still at my side like a promise.
Claire stands first, smoothing her dress. “I should head home.”
“Yeah,” I say, rising slowly. “Me too. I should… take this back upstairs.”
She smiles at the bear. “She’ll be relieved.”
We walk to the door together, the moment fragile but unbroken.
As she steps inside, she pauses and looks back at me.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she says. “For tonight.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
When the door closes behind her, I stay on the porch for a long time, staring out into the dark.
The confession I didn’t make burns quietly in my chest.
It hurts, but it’s a hurt I cherish.