Chapter 22
Liam had dropped Sophie off in front of Gwen’s building with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered, “You’ve got this, a stór,” before vanishing to find parking—or, more likely, to avoid witnessing whatever fallout was about to happen.
She stood in front of the apartment buzzer for a full minute, her finger hovering like pressing it might set off a bomb. In a way, maybe it would.
Finally, she hit the button.
“Hello?” Gwen’s voice came through, flat and tired.
Sophie’s heart kicked. She hadn’t prepared a speech. She barely had a plan. Just a heavy knot of guilt and the hope it wasn’t too late.
“Um... hi. It’s Sophie.”
Silence.
She pressed her lips together, forcing the next words out before her nerves could clamp down.
“I’m not here to fight,” she said quickly. Fighting was her fallback. Apologies? Not so much. “I just—can I come up? Please?”
Another long pause.
Then, just as Sophie’s finger hovered over the buzzer again, Gwen’s voice returned. “Just a minute.”
The door clicked, and Sophie stepped inside. The elevator was slow, the kind that wheezed between floors and gave you time to second-guess everything. By the time it reached the top, Sophie’s palms were sweating.
She stepped out into the hallway—just in time to hear the shrill cry of a smoke alarm.
The door opened a second later. Gwen stood in the doorway barefoot, in jeans and a faded sweatshirt. Her damp hair was pushed back haphazardly, her face pale, eyes shadowed with the dark circles of exhaustion. She looked like someone trying to hold herself together with string.
Smoke drifted from the kitchen behind her.
Sophie arched a brow. At least this time Gwen was wearing pants. “You do know the smoke alarm isn’t a timer, right?”
Gwen exhaled, a humorless little puff. “Overcooked toast. You’ve got about five minutes before I decide this was a mistake,” she added, voice cool but not cruel.
Sophie nodded. She didn’t blame her.
Gwen stepped aside, and Sophie walked in.
The flat was small—modest, lived-in, but hollow in a way that made Sophie’s chest ache. Not just empty, but miserable. The kind of place where someone existed rather than lived.
Dead plants lined the windowsill, their brittle leaves curled and brown. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in just enough light to make the shadows more obvious.
In the far corner, a desk sagged under the weight of unopened mail, flyers and envelopes stacked haphazardly as if Gwen kept meaning to deal with them but never quite got there.
The other tabletops—what little there were—were coated in a fine layer of dust. Not neglectful, exactly. More like someone had stopped trying.
There were no pictures. No mementos. No signs of a life being built. Just the bare bones of what someone needed to get through the day: a couch, a kettle, a blanket tossed over the back of the couch like an afterthought.
It looked like a place someone came to hide.
It was then Sophie, who had spent the last few weeks painting Gwen as the villain in her own mind, suddenly realized she’d gotten it all backwards.
“How long have you lived here?” Sophie asked, needing to fill the silence.
“That’s not really your business,” Gwen said, heading back toward the kitchen, shoulders stiff.
Sophie flinched. Right. She’d earned that.
“I came to talk,” she said, forcing herself to follow. “Not to yell or to accuse.”
Gwen didn’t respond. She poured herself a mug of tea with hands that weren’t quite steady. Another mug sat beside the kettle, already prepared.
She gestured toward it without looking up. Sophie took it—not because she needed tea, but because her hands needed something to hold on to.
She looked around the apartment again. This wasn’t the flat of someone scheming or smug. This was the home of someone who had been surviving, barely.
She glanced at Gwen, who had returned to leaning against the counter, arms crossed tight over her chest like armor. Her sweatshirt sleeves were too long, tugged down over her hands. Her mouth was set in a thin, tired line.
“You don’t even have a painting,” Sophie said softly, voice almost tentative.
Gwen blinked. “What?”
“You don’t have any art or bric-a-brac, or, like, anything. There’s nothing here.”
Gwen’s jaw tensed. She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the same spot on the wall, like if she looked anywhere else the ground might crack open.
“Don’t do that,” she said finally, quiet but sharp. “Don’t come in here and judge me. You don’t get to do that.”
Sophie flinched. “I’m not?—”
“You are,” Gwen cut in. “You came to apologize? Fine. But don’t stand in the middle of my mess and act like you understand it. You don’t. You made your decision about me.”
Sophie’s throat tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Gwen looked at her then, really looked at her—eyes red-rimmed, exhausted, but blazing underneath. “You didn’t even ask me. You just assumed I was the worst version of myself.”
Sophie felt her face burn with shame. There was no good comeback to that. No defense that didn’t sound hollow.
“I came to say that I was wrong,” she said, voice quieter now. “And I’m sorry. I hurt you, I hurt my brother, and I know that. I just... I needed to tell you in person. Even if it doesn’t change anything.”
Gwen blinked. “Say it again?”
“Don’t push it.”
“You were wrong about what, exactly?”
Sophie stared at her tea. Then said, carefully, “About you. About your intentions. About what you meant to Keefe. I thought I was protecting him, but I wasn’t. I was just... controlling things and I had no right to.”
The room went quiet.
“Why now?” Gwen asked. “Why not a week ago? Or when I was still there?”
“Because back then I still thought I was right,” Sophie said. “Now I know I was just scared.”
That landed. Gwen set her mug down and crossed her arms.
“You hurt him. Your own brother,” she said. Not cruelly. Just plainly.
Sophie nodded slowly. “He’s walking around like someone cut out his heart. I see it. I hate it. And I can’t fix it. But I’m hoping you might be able to.”
Gwen’s jaw clenched. “And what, you want me to just jump in the car and come back with you and act like everything is peachy keen? Yes, that will be great craic.”
“No.” Sophie met her eyes. “I want you to choose to come back. Because you still love him. Because he still loves you. And because I was wrong.”
Silence.
Then Gwen asked, “Did Keefe put you up to this?”
Sophie snorted. “No. He doesn’t even know I’m here. He’d strangle me if he found out.”
Gwen cracked the barest smile.
Sophie took a chance, stepping toward the door.
“Listen, I’ll be downstairs for ten minutes. If you want a ride... I’ve got an empty seat and a brother who hasn’t smiled in days.” She paused. “If not... I’ll leave you be. I just wanted to apologize.”
Gwen could see that Sophie was genuine. “Where are you taking me?”
“Where you belong: home with my brother, of course. Where else?”
“I don’t know. The river to see if I float upstream?”
Sophie grinned and snorted then opened the door.
“Sophie?”
She turned.
“Thank you.” Gwen’s voice was soft, but sincere. “That couldn’t have been easy for you.”
Sophie gave a small smile. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still much better at yelling.”