Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Colton
Istand outside Jenna’s bedroom door, my knuckles poised to knock but not quite making contact.
Behind this door is my attorney. But also, just Jenna, who sounded so small on the phone that I drove across town breaking every speed limit.
I take a breath, trying to find the right English words.
With Livy, I always know what to say. With grown women who’ve been hurt? I’m in foreign territory without a map.
I knock softly. “Jenna? It’s Colton.”
A shuffling sound, then silence.
“Matthew is gone,” I add. “I made him leave.”
The door cracks open, revealing Jenna’s face—red-rimmed eyes, hair wild in a way I’ve never seen before. The composed lawyer who strides through courtrooms like she owns them is nowhere to be found. My heart sinks.
“You what?” Her voice is hoarse.
“He is gone. With his things.” I step back to give her space. “I changed the locks.” This isn’t true, but it feels like something I should have done.
She blinks, processing. “You can’t just change locks.”
“Fine. I took his keys.” I hold them up as evidence. “Same thing.”
She pushes the door open wider. She’s wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, both rumpled like she’s been lying down in them for hours. There’s a vulnerability to her that makes my chest tighten.
“He hit you?” she asks.
After all this, that’s what she cares about first?
She brushes her fingers over the spot on my chin, and I cover her hand with mine, holding it there against my skin.
“Don’t worry, I’m a big guy. I let him live. But what’s more important—how are you?”
“Better now. Thank you,” she says. She doesn’t pull her hand away. Neither do I.
“You want some tea?” I ask, because it’s what my mother always offered in crisis, and I guess I’ve inherited the habit. “I can make you some.”
A small, bewildered smile touches her lips. “You’re offering to make me tea?”
“Yes. Or coffee. Or vodka. I’d go buy you whatever you need to dry those tears.”
That gets me a teary laugh. “Tea would be good, maybe. My throat hurts from...” She trails off, not wanting to admit she’s had a breakdown.
“Okay, just sit down again. I’ll be right back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know, but I want to.”
I fill the kettle with water, noting the dishes piled up in the sink.
Not just today’s mess—days’ worth, maybe. The kind of neglect that happens when one person stops caring and the other is too busy to do everything.
I feel sorry for her, and I just want the best for her.
While the water heats up, I start picking up the broken glass Matthew left behind, then pick up the overturned couch and tidy up as best I can—just enough so she won’t be reminded of what he did when she comes out of her bedroom.
When the tea is ready, I go back to her.
She’s perched on the edge of the bed, looking lost in her own apartment. I hand her the tea and she takes a sip.
“Wanna talk?” I ask, sitting beside her, leaving appropriate space between us.
She shrugs, then seems to collapse a little. “He’s been... I’ve been... we’ve been done for a long time. I just couldn’t admit it.”
“Sometimes the hardest person to be honest with is yourself.”
She nods, but it isn’t a simple thing. It’s slow, heavy.
“People always ask, why do they stay?” she whispers.
“I never knew.” A small shake of her head.
“He never hit me. Never hurt me physically. But… there’s so much that happens behind closed doors.
Things you can’t explain without sounding like you’re making excuses.
” Her voice falters. “We don’t actually know why people stay.
We never truly will and we can’t blame them. ”
The words don’t just land—they sink.
“It’s never just one reason,” I admit. “I guess those people who don’t know, got lucky. Maybe they had easier relationships, I don’t know.”
It’s never that simple.
My mind drifts away. Back to something I don’t like to look at too closely.
I should’ve left too.
I know that now in a way that sits heavy in my bones.
My ex did hurt me. Not in the way people expect—not in a way they’d believe if I said it out loud. I’m bigger than her. Stronger. The kind of man people look at and assume nothing could touch him.
So, I let them believe that, because it’s embarrassing for a man. Anyone who claims it isn’t, has never had to face online hate on a daily basis.
But well, my ex would hit me if she got angry.
Fists against my chest. Plates shattering next to my head. Once—a knife, thrown hard enough that I had to catch it before it found me. I caught it just in time, but the blade nicked my palm, slicing through my skin. I told coach Mercer it was an accident.
And I still didn’t leave.
I stood there and took it. Every time. Let her hit me like I was something built to absorb it, like it didn’t count because it wasn’t supposed to hurt someone like me.
I yelled back sometimes. I won’t lie about that.
She pushed me to a place I didn’t recognize.
Twisted something inside me until I sounded like someone else entirely.
But I never touched her. Not once.
I would never.
Even at my worst—even when everything in me was unraveling—that line was the only thing I never crossed.
She crossed it every time.
I know that now.
I stayed not because I loved her—not in the way that mattered—but because leaving would’ve meant admitting everything we built wasn’t real. And I needed it to be real. For Livy. For the picture I kept trying to frame just right. The perfect version of us that only ever existed in my head.
I stayed for something that didn’t exist.
“Sometimes you don’t stay for what it is,” I murmur. “You stay for what it almost becomes. For the version of them you keep hoping will show up one day.”
I exhale slowly, like the truth is something sharp I have to let out carefully. “But at some point… you have to stop fantasizing,” I add, and notice that she’s gone so still and turn to her again.
She looks at me then, really looks at me, like she’s seeing something new. “That’s... surprisingly deep.” She wipes away another tear.
I tap my temple with one finger. “Not just hockey up here.”
That earns me a small smile. Progress.
“I’ve been there you know,” I say. “With Mira. She was verbally and physically abusive.” And just like that, I told her. I’m surprised I did. I never did. It was a secret I kept to myself for years.
“I’m sorry, Colton.” And that’s when she touches my hand. I put my other hand above hers.
“It’s not about me today. It was long ago.”
“But all of this. I’m so sorry you saw it and…” She sniffs and there’s another sob. “I don’t usually...”
Without thinking, I do what I would do for Livy. I open my arm, offering comfort without demanding it. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”
To my surprise, she moves into the space I’ve created, nestling against my side like she belongs there. Her head finds the hollow of my shoulder, and I carefully bring my arm around her, light as a feather, ready to withdraw if she stiffens.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she cries harder, her tears soaking through my shirt. I hold her, saying nothing, just being solid when she needs something to lean on. My hand finds her hair, smoothing it gently.
“I work so hard,” she whispers against my chest. “At everything. My job. On our home. This relationship. And he just... takes.”
“Some people only know how to take,” I say softly. “It’s not your failing.”
We sit like this for minutes, maybe longer. Time feels strange. Her breathing gradually steadies; her body relaxes. I can smell her shampoo—something clean and simple, not the overpowering perfumes Mira used to wear.
“’”The moment is interrupted by the buzz of a phone. Then another. And another.
Jenna sighs and reaches for her phone on the bedside table. “It’s him.”
I resist the urge to take the phone and throw it across the room. Not my place. Not my decision.
She reads the messages, her expression hardening with each one. “He’s threatening to come back with the police if I don’t let him in.”
“He won’t,” I say. “He’s a coward, believe me. Also, he cheated on you, not the other way around. He’d be stupid.”
Another buzz from the phone. She looks down at it, then back at me. “I need to end this. Officially. Over text is terrible, but I can’t face him right now.”
“I’ll stay if you want or go if you want.”
A flicker of uncertainty plays in her eyes, and I can practically see the gears turning in her mind.
This isn’t easy for her; she’s a powerhouse, and here I am, seeing her vulnerable side.
The one she always tries so hard to hide.
But the last thing I want is to add to her burden or cause her pain. Ever.
“Stay.” She says it too fast—like it slips past whatever part of her was trying to keep it.
A soft heat rises to her cheeks, coloring her before she can hide it, and she looks away immediately, like she’s just heard herself for the first time and doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. I’ll stay.”
She takes a deep breath and begins typing. I deliberately look away, giving her privacy, but I can see her fingers flying over the screen, stopping occasionally as she considers her words. The attorney in her is probably crafting each sentence like a legal document, airtight and precise.
Finally, she puts the phone down. “I told him it’s over. That this is legally my apartment since only my name is on the lease. That he needs to find somewhere else to live.” Her voice trembles slightly. “And that if he comes back without my permission, I’ll file for a restraining order.”
“Good.” I nod my approval. “Clear boundaries.”
The phone buzzes again almost immediately. She flinches but doesn’t pick it up. “I can’t read whatever he’s saying right now.”
“Then don’t.” I gently take the phone and turn it face down on the table. “His words have no power unless you give them space in your head.”
She looks up at me with surprise. “So deep. Again.”