Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Henry
I woke to unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling, and Savvy’s warmth curved against me. For a moment, I breathed her in, letting everything settle—James’s death, the revelations, finding my way back here. Her alarm clock read 6:42, red numbers cutting through the grey dawn light filtering through her curtains.
“Hey,” she murmured, turning in my arms. Her eyes were soft with sleep, but I caught their concern. The same look she’d given me last night when I showed up at her door, broken open by grief.
“I need to go to Madison Center,” I said. “I can’t ... I don’t think I can face it alone. Would you come with me?”
She traced my jaw with gentle fingers. “Of course.”
“I’ll have to stop by my place first though. I need to change clothes.” I couldn’t quite meet her eyes, afraid she might see how much I needed her there.
“Let me make us coffee for the drive,” she said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before slipping out of bed. She pulled on my discarded shirt, and something in my heart ached at the sight—not desire, but a bone-deep longing for all the mornings we’d lost.
“We should probably add eating something to the plan,” she said, and I realized I couldn’t even remember my last meal. Everything before last night seemed distant, shrouded in a haze.
The familiar rhythm of her morning routine drifted through the walls—coffee maker gurgling, shower running. I found my pants and checked my phone. Three missed calls from Father. I turned it off.
After she finished, I wandered into her bathroom, the small space still steamy and warm. Her wild array of products covered every surface, somehow chaotic and homey. A fresh toothbrush sat on the counter, still in its package. The simple thoughtfulness of it made my throat tight.
Two cups of coffee later, we were navigating morning traffic, her hand resting on my knee. Her steady presence beside me kept the darker thoughts at bay. As I pulled up to my building, preparing to enter the underground garage, she looked up at the gleaming tower with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“What?” I asked, killing the engine.
“It’s...” She paused, choosing her words. “This isn’t you, Henry. This whole place—it’s like a stage set where some version of you has been performing. But it’s not real. Not really.”
The elevator ride was silent, each floor taking us higher into a life I’d been pretending to want. When I opened my apartment door, its sterile perfection hit me through her eyes—the untouched leather furniture, the abstract art chosen by a decorator, and the kitchen that had never cooked an actual meal .
“I hate it,” I said suddenly, the words escaping before I could stop them. “I hate every inch of this place.”
“Then why stay?”
“Because it was easier than admitting I made a mistake.” I moved to the window, looking out at the city sprawled below. “Easier than facing what I walked away from.”
She joined me, her reflection a ghost in the glass. “And now?”
“Now?” I turned to face her. “Now I’m done with easy. Done pretending.” I caught her hand and intertwined our fingers. “I’ll call the realtor today. List it.”
“Henry—”
“You were right. This place, everything in it—it’s a shell I’ve been hiding in. The best parts of me only exist when I’m with you.”
She squeezed my hand, and for a moment we stood there, surrounded by the evidence of my false life, finding something real in each other.
“I know a place,” she said. “For breakfast. Around the corner.”
“Murphy’s?” I asked. “With those greasy eggs you love?”
“The same.” Her eyes met mine in a challenge. “Unless you’re still too good for diner coffee.”
“I’m not good for much of anything right now.” The admission came out raw but necessary. “But I’d love some terrible eggs with you.”
Murphy’s hadn’t changed—same cracked vinyl booths, same coffee strong enough to strip paint. We slid into an old booth by the window, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed.
“Still drowning your eggs in hot sauce?” I asked as she doctored her plate .
“Still pretending dry toast is a proper breakfast?” she countered.
The familiarity of it all—her stealing sips of my coffee, the way she knew exactly how many sugar packets I wanted—brought back a piece of myself I thought I’d lost.
After breakfast, we headed toward Madison Center. Each mile weighed heavier, reality pressing down again. But Savvy’s hand found mine across the console, keeping me here, keeping me with her.
“I should check in at the desk,” I said as we entered the care center. The morning shift nurse—Sarah, who’d been kind to James—looked up with sympathy.
“Mr. Kingston. I heard. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I swallowed hard, grateful for Savvy’s hand slipping into mine. “We need to...” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Of course.” Sarah nodded in understanding. “Take all the time you need.”
The elevator ride and the walk down the hallway stretched on endlessly. When we reached 517, I hesitated at the door.
“Together?” Savvy whispered.
I nodded, and we stepped inside.
His scent hit me first—Earl Grey and old books. But something was off. The room seemed emptier somehow, though nothing had been moved yet.
Savvy’s hand tightened around mine as we walked farther in. The morning sun poured through the windows, casting long shadows across his empty chair.
“We can pack everything if you’d like,” Sarah said gently from the doorway.
I nodded, unable to form words. Everything around me seemed too vivid, too painfully real.
Savvy moved toward the shelves, her fingers trailing over the spines. “He used to tell me stories about these,” she said softly. “Each first edition had its own history and reason for being here.”
“He loved that you understood that.” I joined her, remembering countless afternoons spent in this room. “He said you saw the magic in old books, not their value.”
I moved to his desk, remembering his urgent words from yesterday. The blue folder was exactly where he said it would be. Inside, as he promised, were his lawyer’s contact information, trust documents, and a list of names—people he’d trusted to help protect his legacy.
For a moment, we stood there, breathing in his essence—the lingering scent of Earl Grey, the familiar musty sweetness of his beloved books, that trace of mint from the candies he kept by his chair. Each detail a knife to my heart.
But we couldn’t stay long. Not with Father making calls and setting things in motion. He wouldn’t even wait for James to be buried before he started dismantling everything my grandfather had built.
“We need to go,” I said, my voice rough. “There’s not a minute to spare.”
Savvy squeezed my hand, understanding in her eyes. “Your father’s already making his move, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” I clutched the folder tighter. “I’m sure.”
Back at Savvy’s apartment, we spread the documents across her kitchen table.
My phone buzzed—Father, again. I sent it to voicemail just as Savvy’s phone lit up. She stared at the screen, and I watched her face change, something shuttering behind her eyes.
“Dr. Blake,” she said. The professional mask I remembered from yesterday slipped into place. “She’s offering me another chance. Says my track record before this week was impeccable.”
I saw her fingers tighten on the phone. “What are you thinking?”
“That I have student loans due next week.” She laughed, but it held no humor. “That being Jennifer Walsh paid much better than being Savvy Honeysucker ever did.”
Her eyes drifted to the stack of loan statements on her desk—the real reason she’d built her career around other people’s endings. The money had been good. Great, even. Enough to keep the collectors at bay, enough to maintain her independence.
“But after everything...” She gestured between us at the scattered evidence of my father’s schemes, at the ghost of James that seemed to linger in every memory. “How can I go back to that? To being that cold, perfect professional who makes endings easy?”
I reached for her hand across the papers, remembering all the times I’d wished I could explain why I left, all the clean breaks that had left us both raw. “Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple. These payments don’t go away because I want a different life.”
“No,” I agreed. “But maybe it’s time we both stopped running from what matters—time we faced the hard things together.”
She stared at her phone, at Dr. Blake’s message offering a way back to financial security. Back to Jennifer Walsh, the untouchable professional who never let anything touch her heart.
“I built this business around helping people avoid pain,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Around making it easy to walk away. ”
I nodded, meeting her gaze. “But has it worked? Has it made things easier for you?”
She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke again. “Maybe some things aren’t supposed to be easy. Maybe the hard conversations are the ones worth having.”
I reached for her, pulling her gently into my arms. A shudder ran through her, and I held her tighter, trying to steady her. Her voice broke the silence between us. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?” I asked softly.
“Of making the wrong choice again,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “Of building another life that isn’t real.” Her breath caught as she went on. “When you left, I created Jennifer Walsh because being Savvy Honeysucker hurt too much. And it worked. The money was good, the job kept me busy, and if there was an emptiness sometimes ... at least I was holding the reins.”
“And now?”
“Now?” She glanced at her phone on the table. “Now I don’t know who I am anymore. Jennifer Walsh would never have lost control of delivering a client’s goodbye. She won’t be standing here wondering if there’s more to life than perfect exits.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” I said. “Maybe it’s time Savvy Honeysucker came back.”
“I’m not that girl anymore, Henry.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t be that bright-eyed dreamer who thought love conquered all.”
“No,” I agreed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re stronger now. Wiser. You’ve built something impressive, even if it started from pain.”
“Built on quicksand,” she muttered. “One crack in my perfect facade, and Dr. Blake was ready to drop me. And without her referrals...”
“Then we’ll figure something else out.”
Her laugh held a sharp edge. “We? Last I checked, these student loans have my name on them, not yours.”
“Savvy—”
“No.” She stepped back, crossing her arms. “I can’t let you solve this, Henry. I won’t trade dependence on Dr. Blake for dependence on you. I need to figure this out myself.”
I waited, watching her pace the small space between the kitchen and living room. This was the Savvy I remembered—fierce and independent, never wanting to be saved.
“What if,” I said, “it wasn’t about dependence? What if it was about choosing what you want, not what you need?”
She stopped pacing, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, forget the loans for a minute. Forget Dr. Blake. What would you choose if you could do anything and be anyone?”
She stood still, her gaze distant. Then, almost too softly, she said, “I’d help people walk into love, not walk away from it. I’d...” She let out a sudden laugh, shaking her head. “God, I sound like a Hallmark movie.”
“You sound like yourself,” I said, my voice steady. “The real you, not Jennifer Walsh.”
Her phone buzzed again—another message from Dr. Blake. This time, Savvy didn’t even glance at it.
“I can’t quit,” she said. “Not completely. Not yet. But maybe ... maybe I could be more selective. Take only the cases where walking away is the right answer, not just the easy one.”
“And the loans? ”
“Will still be there.” She squared her shoulders, her voice growing steadier. “But maybe being Jennifer Walsh isn’t the only way to pay them.”
I wanted to argue, to offer help, to fix everything. But I knew that wasn’t what she needed. Not from me, not anymore.
“Whatever you decide,” I said instead, “I’m here. Not to save you or solve things. Just ... here.”
She nodded, then picked up her phone. I watched as she typed a response to Dr. Blake, her fingers moving purposefully. When she set it down again, something had changed in her expression—like she’d put down a weight she’d carried too long.
“I told her I need time,” she said. “That I’m reevaluating my practice.”
“And?”
“And maybe it’s time to help people believe in something again.” She looked up at me, her eyes clear and determined. “Some endings aren’t meant to be easy, but beginnings—they’re worth fighting for.”