Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
JESSICA
Austen purrs on my chest like a furry, weighted blanket.
Around three am, he gets up, walks across my face, and settles on the pillow next to my head.
Tonight he's pressed against me like he knows something is wrong.
“I messed up,” I tell him.
He purrs louder.
“I told him he was just like David. He's not. David never bought me anything except guilt trips and a subscription to a wine club I didn't ask for.”
More purring.
“Scott bought my entire building because he was scared of losing me. That's not control. That’s…emotional panic buying. It's like when I bought two dozen candles during my divorce except with real estate.”
Austen blinks at me slowly.
“You're right. That comparison doesn't quite work. But you know what I mean.”
He doesn't know what I mean. He's a cat. But talking to him is better than spiraling in silence.
By six, I've talked myself in and out of apologizing approximately forty-seven times.
By seven, I've composed and deleted fifteen text messages.
By eight, I've convinced myself that Scott probably never wants to see me again and I should respect his space forever, even though technically I'm the one who asked for space, which means I'm respecting my own request, which means—
My apartment buzzer goes off.
Austen launches himself off the bed like a missile, because the buzzer is his mortal enemy and must be destroyed.
I stumble to the intercom. “Hello?”
“Open up. We brought caffeine.”
Michelle. And based on the muffled chaos behind her voice, she didn't come alone.
My apartment is not large enough for this many people.
Michelle, Hazel, Amber, Jo, and sitting in my one good armchair like a queen holding court is Grandma Hensley, who apparently orchestrated this entire gathering via a group chat I wasn't invited to.
“You look terrible,” Michelle says, handing me coffee.
“I haven't slept.”
“We know. Austen texted us.”
“Austen doesn't have thumbs.”
“It was implied.” She steers me to the couch. “Sit.”
I sit and drink coffee from Twin Waves Brewing, and it tastes like mercy.
“So,” Grandma Hensley says, steepling her fingers like a tiny matchmaking villain. “You told Scott he was just like your ex-husband.”
“I was upset.”
“I think you pushed him away because you were scared of being happy, not because you actually believe he's like David.”
The words land somewhere uncomfortable and true.
“He bought my building without telling me.”
“Yes. Foolish. Very male. Textbook case of 'I'll fix everything myself because asking for help or permission is terrifying.'” Grandma Hensley waves a hand. “Did David ever do anything like that?”
I think about it. “David never bought me anything that didn't benefit him more.”
“Exactly. David made decisions to keep you small. To keep you dependent. To make sure you never had enough power to leave.” She leans forward.
“Scott made decisions because he was terrified of losing you. Stupid, clumsy, secretive, definitely should-have-asked-first decisions. But they came from fear of loss, not desire for control.”
“That's...” I trail off. “That's still not okay.”
“Of course it's not okay. He should have told you. He should have asked and treated you like a partner instead of a problem to solve.” She shrugs. “But the fact that he did it wrong doesn't mean he did it for the wrong reasons.”
Michelle sits beside me. “Scott Avery has been in love with you for years. He bought your building to protect you and wrote an entire book about falling in love with you.” She squeezes my hand.
“David would never do any of those things.
He wouldn't sacrifice his comfort, his money, or his pride for anyone—least of all you.”
I think about Scott on the beach. The way he looked when I told him he was no different from David. Like I'd hit him and broken something that might not heal.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “I'm an idiot.”
“Yes,” everyone says in unison.
“I need to apologize. Before I lose him for good.”
“Then go,” Grandma Hensley says simply. “What are you waiting for?”
Scott's condo building is the nicest on the harbor. All glass and chrome and the kind of architecture that screams “I have money and no idea what to do with it.”
The doorman recognizes me from previous visits and waves me through. I take the elevator to the top floor, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
I knock.
Grayson opens the door.
“Jessica.” He looks relieved. “Thank goodness. I was hoping someone would show up.”
“Is Scott here? I need to talk to him.”
“He's here, but—” Grayson glances over his shoulder. “He's on the phone. Some business call. Could be a while.” He steps back to let me in. “Come wait. I'll let him know you're here when he's done.”
I step inside.
“I've been trying for two hours to talk sense into him, and I'm pretty sure this apartment is draining my will to live.” Grayson shakes his head.
“You know what Michelle did to my place when we got together? Throw pillows. So many throw pillows. Blankets on every surface. Art with inspirational quotes that I pretend to hate but actually find very comforting.” He gestures at Scott's empty walls.
“This man needs decorative pillow help.”
“Talk sense into him about what?”
Grayson's expression flickers. “Just...stuff. He's been in a bad way since yesterday. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Or as comfortable as you can on furniture that actively resists human warmth.”
I perch on the edge of the concrete slab masquerading as a couch. Grayson hovers awkwardly.
“Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? A throw pillow to make this place less depressing?”
“I'm fine. Thanks.”
He nods and disappears down the hall, presumably to tell Scott I'm here.
I wait.
And wait.
The condo is so quiet I can hear the waves crashing through the windows. So empty I can hear my own heartbeat. It's like sitting in a very expensive sensory deprivation tank.
After about five minutes, my nerves get the better of me. I need to move. I need to do something other than sit on this hostile couch and rehearse my apology for the fortieth time.
I stand up and wander toward the hallway. Grayson mentioned a bathroom somewhere, and splashing water on my face sounds like an excellent way to calm down before the most important conversation of my life.
The hallway is as personality-free as the living room. White walls. No art. Not even a family photo. Three doors—one open (bathroom), one closed, one slightly ajar with light spilling out.
As I pass the slightly ajar door, I hear Scott's voice.
“—already told you, Rodney. My decision is final.”
I freeze. I should keep walking to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and wait like a normal person who respects privacy.
But then I hear my name.
“I can't publish a book about Jessica without her permission. Not after everything that happened.”
I stop breathing.
“The names are changed—” Rodney's voice sounds tinny through the speakerphone.
“It doesn't matter. Everyone who knows us would know. And she's already—” Scott's voice cracks. “She already thinks I make decisions for her instead of with her. Publishing this book would prove her right.”
I press closer to the door. My heart tightening in my chest.
“Scott, you're not thinking clearly. You're upset about whatever happened yesterday, and you're making a career-ending decision based on emotion.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I'm finally making a decision that puts her first.”
“She's not even speaking to you!”
“Which is exactly why I have to do this. I can't fix what I broke. I can't make her forgive me. But I can stop making decisions about her life without her consent. Starting with this book.”
There's a long pause.
“You really love her,” Rodney says finally.
“More than I've ever loved anything. More than my career. More than being V. Langley.” Another pause. “More than being right.”
“And you're just going to let her go? Not fight for her?”
“She asked me to leave her alone. And for once in my life, I'm going to respect what someone else wants instead of deciding I know better.”
I'm crying. I didn't notice when it started, but tears are streaming down my face.
“I'll call the publisher,” Rodney says quietly. “Tell them the book is shelved indefinitely.”
“Thank you.”
“For the record, I think you're making a mistake.”
“Maybe. But it's mine to make.”
The call ends. I hear Scott exhale—a long, exhausted sound.
I should knock. Should announce myself. Should do something other than stand here crying outside his door.
But my body has other plans.
I lean forward to wipe my eyes, and my foot catches on the hallway rug—one of approximately three decorative items in this entire sterile apartment—and suddenly I'm falling.
I grab for the door handle to catch myself.
The handle turns, the door flies open, and I tumble directly into Scott Avery's writing office, landing in a graceless heap at his feet.
“Jessica?”
He's standing there, phone still in hand, staring down at me like I'm a hallucination. He looks terrible—with dark circles under his eyes.
He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
“Hi,” I manage from the floor.
“Did you just—were you—”
“Eavesdropping? Yes. Falling through your door? Also yes. Having any dignity whatsoever?” I struggle to sit up. “Apparently not.”
He doesn't move. Just stares at me with an expression I can't read.
“How long were you out there?”
“Long enough.” I finally get to my feet, brushing off my knees. “I was waiting in your living room—which, by the way, feels like a hospital designed by someone who hates joy—and I got up to find the bathroom and I heard you say my name and I just...” I gesture helplessly. “I couldn't walk away.”
His jaw tightens. “You weren't supposed to hear that.”
“I know. But I did.” I take a breath. “You're pulling the book? Your best work? Because of what I said on the beach?”
“Because of what I did. You were right. I keep making decisions about your life without asking you. The building, the book, all of it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Pulling it is the only thing I can do that actually respects your wishes.”
“Scott—”
“You asked me to leave you alone. So I am. Even if it means—” He stops. Swallows. “Even if it means losing the best thing I've ever written.”
He almost smiles. Almost. Then his face goes serious again.
“Why are you here, Jessica?”
“To apologize. To tell you I was wrong.” I take a breath. “To stop you from pulling the book.”
“You don't want me to pull it?”
“No. I don't.”
“But yesterday you said—”
“I was scared. I let David's voice in my head convince me that everyone who tries to help me is trying to control me.” I step closer. “But you're not anything like him. And I'm sorry I said you were.”
He's very still. “I did make decisions without asking you. About the building. About the book.”
“Yes. And that wasn't okay. You should have asked.”
“I know.”
“You should have treated me like a partner instead of a problem to solve and trusted me to handle my own life instead of trying to protect me from it.”
“I know.” His voice is raw. “And I'm so sorry. I was scared of losing you, and I did the only thing I know how to do when I'm scared—I tried to control the situation. I tried to fix everything myself. And instead I broke everything.”
“You didn't break everything.”
“Didn't I?”
“No.” I close the distance between us. We're inches apart now. “You broke some things. Important things. Things we'll need to talk about and work through and probably argue about.”
“That sounds...complicated.”
“It is. We're complicated.” I reach up and touch his face. He closes his eyes like the contact hurts. “But that's not the same as broken.”
“Jessica—”
“Don't pull the book, Scott.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said. I was wrong.” I take a breath. “The world deserves to read it.”
“Even though it's about you? About us?”
“Especially because it's about us.” I smile through the tears that are starting again. “Besides, the names are changed. No one will know.”
“Everyone will. Small-town bookstore owner, grumpy landlord—”
“Then let them read the most beautiful love story I've ever read and know that it was inspired by us.” I cup his face in both hands. “I'm proud of us, Scott. I'm proud of this messy, complicated, definitely-needs-work thing we have. And I don't want you to hide it.”
“But I hurt you. I made decisions without—”
“Yes. You did. And we're going to talk about that. A lot. Probably with some arguing and definitely with some ground rules about communication going forward.” His stubble is rough beneath my touch.
“But pulling the book and hiding isn't the answer.
You finally wrote something honest. Don't destroy it because we had a fight.”
He searches my face like he's looking for a trap. “You really want me to publish it?”
“Yes, and do the cover reveal. I want you to launch the preorders.” I take a breath. “And I want to be standing next to you when you do.”
“You want to be at the reveal?”
“Of course. Holding your hand. Letting everyone in Twin Waves know that V. Langley's love story is real.”
He kisses me. It tastes like tears and forgiveness and the kind of hope that only exists when you've almost lost something and gotten it back.
When we finally break apart, he's smiling.
“You're sure about this?” he asks. “Standing up there with me? Everyone knowing?”
“They already know. Penelope made sure of that.” I shrug. “Might as well make it official.”
He's looking at me like I've given him something precious. Like I'm something precious.
“I don't deserve you,” he says.
“Probably not. But you're stuck with me now. I'm very persistent.”
“I've noticed.”
“Also, your condo needs throw pillows. Desperately. Grayson mentioned it approximately seven times.”
“My condo is fine.”
“Your condo looks like a hospital had a midlife crisis. We're going shopping.”
“We are?”
“After the reveal event. First we tell the world you're V. Langley. Then we buy you some decorative accessories. I have priorities.”
He's laughing again, and the sound fills the sterile apartment with something it's been missing—life.
And maybe that's what I'm here to bring.
Starting with throw pillows.