29. Linger #2
And she’s right. We did, over the holidays we had crossed that line, throwing caution to the wind and living in that blissful happiness of—more.
New Years Eve, I felt the tide changing, like I was finally ready to take that step and move forward. And then, like a storm, Alex rips right through it.
And now I don’t know anymore.
“It’s his birthday soon,” Philippa adds more gently. “Maybe do something nice. Try to forget all this crap with Alex—once and for all.”
Something in me flinches. The idea of finality. Severing whatever thread still ties me to Alex. But what if jumping headfirst into something new with Broderick, messes things up too.
Is it better to be the one chased than the one chasing?
Eventually, Philippa heads home, and Riley leaves for the studio. I stay behind, grateful for the quiet.
I put on The Lord of the Rings—something comforting. I used to watch it with Mom and Jack. My eyelids grow heavy, the hum of the TV a soft lullaby, when a knock jolts me awake.
Not a buzz from downstairs. A knock.
My stomach drops. Maybe if I ignore it, they’ll go away.
Another knock.
I groan, setting the mug down. I haven’t showered or brushed my hair, and I’m swimming in one of Philippa’s oversized Columbia sweatshirts.
The next knock is softer.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pad to the door and open it.
Broderick.
Apology written all over his face. Black coat. Damp hair. Hands shoved deep in his pockets like he’s not sure what to do with them.
“Hey.”
“I wanted to see you,” he says quietly. “You’ve been quiet.”
I fold my arms over my stomach. “You’ve been busy.”
“Not that busy.”
The silence between us stretches—thick, heavy.
“I came to apologize.”
“For what?” I tilt my head, feigning innocence. I already know. I want to hear him say it.
“For New Year’s.” He shifts but doesn’t look away. “I lost my shit. Caveman took over. I hate that you saw me like that.”
“You were just defending me.” I shrug.
“No.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “I was claiming you. That’s not the same.” His voice roughens. “And I hated how he looked at you—like he still had a right. After what he did.”
Heat stirs in my chest—anger, shame, want, all at once.
He’s close now. Close enough to smell the crisp mountain air after a storm.
“Elena, you deserve better. Better than him. Better than someone who disappears when it’s hard, who shows up just to take.”
I look away. My throat burns.
I’m still sore in all the places I can’t name—from Alex, from myself, from every time I mistook chaos for love.
Then Broderick says the one thing I can’t fight. “I miss you.”
And just like that, my defenses crack.
Before I can stop myself, I grab his shirt and kiss him—hard, messy, desperate. Maybe if I kiss him enough, those feelings from New Years Eve will come back.
His hands find my hips. I press closer, tugging at his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. But then—he catches my wrist.
“Elena—” His voice breaks against my lips.
“I need this,” I whisper. “I need you.”
He pulls back, just enough to make it hurt. “Not like this.”
“You don’t want me?” The question slips out small, pathetic.
His expression softens, but his jaw is tight. I see the war in his eyes.
“No, baby,” he says, hands braced on my shoulders, grounding me. “I’m not fucking you again until we go on a real date.”
The words hit like cold water.
“Come again?”
He just looks at me—steady, sure, smug bastard.
I cross my arms. “You’re really saying no?”
“Yeah.”
I laugh once, dry. “No to sex. With me. In this very accessible hoodie. With no bra.”
His jaw tightens. His tell. He’s seconds from breaking.
I push, because I can’t help it. “Did Alex give you a brain injury when you fucked each other or?”
“Please he couldn’t handle all this American muscle,” he scoffs, “and this isn’t about you not being sexy.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes, and saying no might actually kill me.
” He laughs under his breath. “But from the moment you stepped into my gym months ago, we’ve been doing this wrong.
Using sex to hold on to something that was already there.
And El—it hasn’t just been sex in a long time. Maybe it never was.”
I arch a brow. “Damn, Schwartz. That was one hell of a TEDTalk.”
“You’re a cheeky little ball-buster, you know that?”
“You can bust your balls on my lips if you want.”
He groans, low and helpless.
“Because I was definitely offering birthday sex,” I say, feigning innocence.
“Elena—”
“Come on. I was planning a birthday blowjob. Would’ve worn lipstick. Red, maybe.”
His breath hitches. His hands balling into fists at his sides.
“You can’t look at me like that and say shit like that and expect me not to take you right here,” he growls.
I grin. “So you do want me.”
He leans in, nose brushing mine. “Every fucking second.”
I rise onto my toes, voice a whisper. “Then take me right here. Right now. On this floor.”
He exhales sharply, eyes burning. “You’re not playing fair.”
“Neither are you.”
Then—he steps back. Again.
“What the actual fuck,” I mutter.
“Take me out,” he says roughly. “One night. Just us. No mixed signals. Let me hold your hand.”
I blink. “You know this is a lot of paperwork, right?”
“I’m good at renegotiating terms.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“I’m sure he’ll see my side. I can be very persuasive.”
“Oh, so you’re gonna wine and dine him too?”
“Elena.”
I roll my eyes. “So this is a date?”
“No,” he says, smiling that maddening smile. “It’s a not-date. You wear something slutty. I don’t tell you how good you look until halfway through the night. We both pretend we’re not thinking about each other naked the whole time.”
“You’re annoying.”
He backs toward the door. “And yet, you’re already picturing it.”
“Am not.”
Please kiss me.
“You’re wondering what I’ll wear.”
“I’m not.”
Please fuck me.
“You’re already planning that blowjob.”
“Shut up.”
Please.
“Seven o’clock tomorrow.”
He opens the door, stepping out with his hands raised in mock-surrender.
“Not a date,” I say.
“Not a date,” he echoes.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand there, blinking, mouth parted, heart racing.
Broderick fucking Schwartz.
The only man alive who could have me half-naked, begging—and still walk away like he’s doing me a favor. And it’s not even about the sex. Not really. It’s the refusal. The choice to wait.
To be good. To be more.
I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t feel like someone worth waiting for.
I collapse onto the couch. The sweatshirt clings to my skin; the air smells faintly of him.
He wants a clean start.
But the moment I let myself think about moving on—really moving on—Alex finds a way back in.
Pulling the tide out from under me. Leaving me breathless, soaked in salt.
Since he told me he and Madison weren’t together—that all those posts and flowers were just desperate attempts to get my attention—it reignited a flicker of hope for us. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to fully let go.
But he’s never actually tried to win me back. Never shown me, in any real way, that he still wants me. That he wants us.
Then acts hurt when he sees me with someone else.
I curl into myself, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands.
Yet Broderick proves, time and again, that he wants this—no matter how many times I push him away. He’s giving me a chance…a chance I’m not sure I deserve.