Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
Kit
I should’ve done this yesterday. But I was numb—mind buzzing, body on autopilot, throat thick with regret and lust. Yes, I shouldn’t have kissed Roderick Wilder.
Did I stop him? Nope, actually, I kind of gave him a green light just by looking at him like I wanted him to devour me while I got a taste of what I’ve been missing.
And, yes, I’m judging myself for that so hard.
Then Lola didn’t show up for her shift, and everything unraveled. I had to cancel my lessons, close the shop, and sit in silence with the memory of Roderick’s kiss singed into my skin.
At least it gave me a night to think about everything I’ve done wrong. Yet, somehow, I feel like I didn’t handle our last goodbye like a real closure. Also, that kiss was a big no-no. Kissing another man while I’m dating Perfect Timmy . . . that wasn’t right.
It’s obvious that my relationship has to come to an end.
I’m not sure if there’s a protocol for this—showing up at your boyfriend’s apartment before eight in the morning to end things—but it seems less cruel than doing it over the phone. Cowardly, maybe, but at least I’m here.
In my defense, I’m not doing this to run back to Roderick, even if that kiss shattered me in all the worst and best ways. I’m not na?ve enough to believe a single kiss rewrites everything. It didn’t stitch me back together. It ripped open everything I’ve tried to bury.
Exposed the truth I’d been pretending not to know: that no matter how long I stay with Timothy, I’ll never love him.
Not like I loved Roderick.
And I don’t want to waste years crafting a lukewarm love story that never becomes anything more than polite silence and well-scheduled sex.
One day I will find the right guy, and for that . . . well, for that I need to fix myself. Scrape Roderick out of my bloodstream with something stronger than time. A lobotomy would be ideal—if it didn’t mean erasing the good parts too. Because some memories, I want to keep. Even if they ache.
For now, I’m just going to focus on ending my current relationship. I ring the bell to Timothy’s apartment.
He opens the door wearing a half-finished button-down shirt, shaven, hair neat, already prepped for whatever clean-shaven thing men like him do before a morning espresso and passive-aggressive meetings. His tie hangs over his neck like a noose he hasn’t committed to yet.
“Did I miss something?” he asks, eyes narrowing in polite confusion. “Is everything okay? You could have confirmed tonight with a phone call.”
“Oh, right, well, tonight is a no-go. I have to be at my father’s,” I say. “One of the nurses canceled for the evening.”
I let that small truth serve as my life excuse. The one nurse quit, but a new one will be arriving before Samantha’s shift is over. Timothy doesn’t need to know that, though.
He blinks, confused. “Why does your father have a nurse?”
Of course he doesn’t know. We never talked about my dad’s stroke the couple of times we were on the phone.
This should be the moment that stings, but it just dulls the edges more.
I give him a clipped explanation: the stroke, the rehab, the slow recovery.
There aren’t many details. I don’t even let in my current emotions.
I just say enough to get me through this conversation.
“Do you need money for his care?” he asks.
I stare at him. “Money?”
“Yes, isn’t that why you’re here?” He makes it sound like this is a transaction.
It’s funny that he reminds me of my father, who would just expect me to talk to him when I needed something. Our relationship has never been loving or deep. Just . . . transactional. Fuck, it seems like I’ve been dating my father. That’s—not what I expected to discover today.
“What?” The syllable feels foreign in my mouth. “Why would you think I need money?”
“I know you don’t earn much at the shop and the music lessons . . . I’m sure they don’t pay you much either,” he says gently, like he’s trying not to bruise my ego. “It’s admirable that you’re juggling so much with so few resources.”
So little?
“Little resources?” I repeat, baffled. “My dad has insurance.”
“Oh. Good. That’s good. Though if you ever need anything—”
“I have money. He has money,” I say flatly, my brain trying to catch up with whatever just happened here.
He smiles like I’m a child pretending to be an adult. “You don’t have to pretend with me, honey. What does the shop pay—seven dollars an hour?”
Lola makes fifteen dollars an hour, but I’m not here to educate him on labor ethics.
Then it hits me like a goddamn record drop.
“You think I work there?”
His brows draw together. “Don’t you?”
“I mean, sometimes. But I own the place.” I cross my arms and study him.
“You own it?” His eyes flicker with confusion. “Then why do you live in that tiny apartment? And why the music lessons if the store gives you income?”
He’s trying to solve me like a riddle; he just realized he’s never read all the clues. Two years and he’s still guessing the basics.
“Does my financial status matter?” I ask, low and level.
“Well, yes,” he says, not blinking. “I’m dating this talented teacher who works part-time at a record shop. You know how that looks among my circles.”
Okay, I’m even more confused now than I was when this conversation started.
“You’re dating a teacher who can barely pay her bills?” I clarify, and I swear, he hears the teeth behind the smile. “Because your circle . . . likes that?”
“Which I totally respect,” he adds quickly, ignoring the part about his circle. “But yes, it looks good that I’m with a girl from the other side of the tracks so to speak.”
I laugh. I fucking laugh. Because it’s ridiculous that in two years, we barely scratched the surface of each other.
He was safe in the way white walls are safe—completely devoid and soul-sucking.
I didn’t even realize how much I was starving for attention until last night.
Until I felt the fire and wanted to burn.
“What’s so funny?”
“You ever heard of The Cooper Saints?” I ask. I don’t wait for the answer. “Or Ethel Price?”
His face lights up a little. “The Cooper Saints? Of course. My father has a guitar signed by the entire band.”
“Connor Dempsey is my father.”
His mouth opens. Stays there.
“I help produce music. I have been writing songs since I was a teenager.” I press my lips together. “I get royalty checks that could pay for a new closet of your tailored suits every year for the rest of your life. I can support myself—and my father if it ever came to that.”
He swallows. “You don’t need my money?”
“You thought I did?” My voice sharpens. “You think I was with you for that?”
“No, but—”
There’s no point in discussing what he thought or why he’s dating a teacher who can barely make it on her own. Is he trying to save me? I don’t need to be saved, just to be loved.
“I came because I didn’t want to be an asshole and break up with you over the phone. But this—this just proved what I already knew. We’re not compatible. And I’m not going to waste another second pretending we are.”
“But we’re so perfect together, Kit,” he disagrees. “My family loves the fact that we’re together. You can see that, can’t you?”
I wave a hand like I’m swatting away smoke.
“No. We’re just convenient. And I’m not a charity case. I don’t need anyone to save me.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. I turn away and walk away with the soft burn of Roderick’s kiss still etched into my lips.