26. Isaac
26
ISAAC
The apartment is quiet in a way that makes my skin itch.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, ankle monitor heavy around my leg. A steel reminder of what’s coming. House arrest. A temporary pause before the fall. Some people might think it’s a blessing—more time with the person I love, more time in my own bed, breathing air that isn’t filtered through a vent in a cell. But right now, it just feels like prolonging the inevitable. Like waiting for the hammer to drop while pretending everything’s fine.
Tyler’s not here.
He said he had errands to run, but I don’t buy it. There’s nothing he needs out there that he can’t order online or ask someone to bring by. No, he needed space. Probably to cry somewhere I couldn’t see him. He’s been doing that more lately—slipping away when he thinks I’m not paying attention. His eyes are always red when he comes back. And I get it. I do. But it kills me. This isn’t supposed to be his burden.
He’s been clinging to me like I’m already gone. And maybe I am. Maybe a part of me started slipping the second I laid my hands on Guy and didn’t stop. I still don’t remember all of it. Just flashes. Rage. Tyler’s face in my mind. The way he looked, broken and battered on the ground. The way he still cries out in his sleep sometimes. All the tears he cried.
I vaguely remember the sound of bones cracking. The moment they pulled me off, and I looked down at the mess I’d made of him. And the worst part? I didn’t feel regret. I felt relief.
Tyler and I have been close since that night I brought him home from the hospital. Since the first time he curled up on my couch like a wounded thing and let me take care of him. Our connection is strong and burns hot. But now it feels like he’s trying to shove decades’ worth of love into days. Every kiss has a desperation to it. Every touch lingers too long, like he’s memorizing me with his skin. The sex is… God, it’s incredible, but it’s too much. Too intense. Too fragile.
This morning, he made love to me like he was never going to see me again.
We both cried.
He didn’t say much afterward. Just held me close, and I let him. Because every time he touches me, I think it might be the last time.
When he left, I didn’t ask where he was going. I already knew.
I busy myself with the notebooks again. Inventory. Equipment. Resale values. Trying to clean up the mess I made before they put me away.
I won’t leave him the apartment. The lease is up in the spring. Mac and Anders promised they’d take care of him. I believe them.
But I hate that it’s come to this.
He deserves more than this. More than me. He deserves a future.
If that means letting him go, I’ll do it. I’ll make the call. Be the villain if I have to.
My phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Tyler.
Kitten: I’m sorry. I just need space. Give me time to figure things out, please. I love you.
I stare at it.
It hurts, but I get it. I think he means an hour. Maybe two. Just enough time to get his head on straight. To breathe.
So I let him have it.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts.
Too early for Tyler. But I stupidly hope it’s him. Maybe he left his keys behind or is trying to trick me into getting some fresh air.
I open the door.
Talon Valdin stands on the other side, looking like he walked off the cover of a political magazine.
“Tyler’s not here,” I say immediately.
“I know,” he replies. “I’m not here to see him.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I came to talk to you. May I come in?”
“No.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Very well. Then I’ll be brief. Tyler isn’t coming home.”
My chest tightens. “What does that mean?”
“He’s chosen to attend Stanford. He left this morning. His decision.”
I think of the text.
My stomach drops.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
He launches into it, his voice like polished marble—calm, detached, like he’s reciting bullet points from a briefing he didn’t write himself. He says there was an emergency hearing this morning. A motion was filed to withdraw my guilty plea on the grounds of ineffective counsel and the sudden appearance of new, corroborating evidence. Leslie was there, apparently, and according to Talon, he was unexpectedly persuasive . The prosecutor didn’t contest the motion. Didn’t object. Just let it happen.
Then came the dismissal. Just like that. The charges of attempted murder, assault with intent, battery—every charge was dropped.
Talon calls it a miraculous misunderstanding . He says the footage from that night had been reviewed again. That additional statements were submitted. That Guy Montague, in an act of either remorse or political maneuvering, penned a letter claiming he was confused. That I was trying to help him. That everything had happened so fast. Concussion. Trauma. Misidentification.
Honestly, I think I miss more than half of what comes out of Tyler’s father’s mouth, because none of it makes any sense. I don’t even know how long he’s been here, in my doorway, droning on about… This is impossible.
In a practiced move, Talon pulls the letter from his coat pocket and sets it on the table between us, neat and careful. The seal from Montague’s legal team is embossed on the top. I don’t touch it.
“His personal apology,” he says with a small shrug, like this makes it all fine. “Unfortunate misunderstanding. No harm, no foul.”
“What is it that you want in return for all of this?" I ask, wary. It can't be anything good.
“Oh, nothing,” he says, too easily. “That’s just information. A courtesy.”
I wait.
“Everything I've informed you of has already happened. It's done. You'll be receiving a call from your lawyer any minute, I'm sure. I wanted to be the first to deliver the news, because I have other matters to discuss with you."
"And the other matter is?"
"I'd like to discuss your business,” he says finally. "I heard about your troubles with the zoning commission, and I understand you're having some cash flow issues. I happen to have some contacts that could not only expedite your approval process, but also waive any fees associated with the terribly inconvenient ordinance changes. It seems reasonable that you receive some assistance considering those changes were made at a most inopportune time in your journey as a small business owner. A gross oversight, I'm sure," he says in a way that leaves zero question that he was the one to interfere with my opening. "I'd also like to invest in your business, as a philanthropic investor. There would be no expectation of return on investment. I only hope to support a small business in an underserved community."
"And why would you do that?" I ask, my voice flat. Even without knowing who he is from everything Tyler’s told me, men like him don’t do this kind of thing for free or without gaining something in return. "You can't tell me you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart."
"You wound me," he deadpans, not a hint of inflection in his voice. "But that isn't all. As a personal thank you for what you did for my son, I would like to offer you this."
He sets down a second envelope and waits expectantly, but I make no move to open it or even glance in its direction. With a sigh and a barely disguised curl of his lip, he opens it himself and pulls out a check, setting it on top so I can read it clearly.
I don't mean to look, but the numbers are printed large and clear. My eyes widen. It's a check for fifty thousand dollars.
Fifty. Thousand. Dollars.
I'm ashamed of the way my face heats, of the way I start to sweat when I avert my eyes to pretend I'm not looking at a piece of paper that would fix all of my problems.
"That would make a good sized down payment on a decent home, wouldn't it? One that would be big enough for your whole family. There's a house not far from the gym for sale, actually. And did you know the nearby city hospital is running a promising trial for chronic pain management? I hear there are spots available on the trial, if one were to make a call to the right people in time."
My stomach churns.
“What. Do. You. Want.”
Finally, he lays his cards on the table. He speaks clearly and firmly.
“I want you to respect Tyler’s choice. Don’t contact him. Let him go. If he reaches out to you, that is his decision. But give him the space he asked for.”
Polite. Cold. Final.
"You should be hearing from Mr. Preston soon. I'll leave you to discuss and consider your options. I'm counting on you to do the right thing."
And then he's gone.
I stare at the stack of envelopes he's presented me with. And the check. The sight of it makes my stomach churn.
Tyler’s text flashes again in my mind.
I just need space.
Was that his way of saying goodbye?
It doesn’t sound like him.
It doesn’t feel like him.
What if it was real?
What if this is what he needs, and I ignore it?
What if I’m the one caging him now?
I don’t trust Talon, but what if I’m wrong? What if not honoring his request for space is what pushes him away?
But—California? It's all the way on the other side of the country.
Fifty thousand dollars.
My phone rings, Leslie’s name lit up on the screen.