Chapter 20
THE TRAP (LIZ)
The door clicks shut behind me.
I move past Nate and Eden’s room, past the gym, into the living room without turning on a light. Then I drop onto the sofa exactly as I am.
Sleep won’t come.
Outside, the ocean keeps hitting the shore—hard, repetitive, relentless. Crickets grind in the dunes. The house sits quiet, indifferent to what just happened upstairs.
I curl onto my side and pull my knees in.
Another man. Another boxer. Another body I can’t seem to shut out.
I did that.
I touched him first. Climbed on top of him. Opened the door myself.
The worst part is that it didn’t feel reckless. It felt true.
That’s the trap.
I told myself I could take relief and walk away. Take the heat. Leave the rest of me locked down where it belongs.
Then he stopped.
Not because he didn’t want me. Because he wanted more.
I want more.
His voice comes back exactly as it sounded upstairs—steady, certain, like wanting someone completely is the most normal thing in the world.
I press my face harder into the sofa and make myself breathe until thought comes back.
I don’t know how to be wanted like that.
I know how to survive appetite. Manage chemistry. Leave before anything gets expensive.
I don’t know what to do with a man who asks for the whole thing.
Nothing in the room touches it. Not the ocean. Not the dark. Not the house holding still around me.
By the time the windows start to gray, I’m done pretending lying still counts as rest.
I push off the sofa and slip out of the house barefoot.
The beach is empty. A few gulls skim low over the water. The second my feet hit sand, instinct gives me the only answer it has ever trusted.
Run.
I take off hard along the waterline, chasing the illusion of solid ground.
It lasts maybe five seconds.
The sand gives under every step. My stride won’t lock. My foot strike keeps breaking apart. Everything that usually saves me—rhythm, drive, the certainty of ground that gives back—turns useless in the sand.
I push anyway.
Faster. Harder. Angrier.
The beach gives me nothing back.
My calves burn. My lungs go sharp. What I was trying to outrun stays exactly where it was.
I try to sprint and nearly lose my footing.
That ends it.
I slow to a jog. Then a walk. Then I brace my hands on my knees and drag air in while the ocean keeps doing whatever it wants beside me.
The water is gray and rough under the early light, all motion and no mercy.
I walk straight in.
The cold knocks the air out of me. The next wave makes my legs ache. I keep going anyway, deeper, until it’s at my thighs, then my hips, shoving at me from every angle.
Standing there becomes work.
Not in. Not out.
Halfway.
The worst place to live.
Another wave slams into me and steals more ground. I brace, arms out slightly, fighting just to stay upright while the sand shifts under my feet.
I don’t dive.
I don’t swim.
I don’t go under.
I just stand there in the middle, letting the surf hit me from every direction.
Halfway doesn’t work.
Not with him. Not with this.
Not for the version of me that keeps trying to survive on less.
So I turn and force my way back out.
The retreat is harder. The undertow pulls. The sand clings. By the time I stagger clear, my clothes are soaked, my skin numb, and whatever I was trying to drown walks back out with me.
Running didn’t fix it.
Neither did this.
I walk back to the house with my clothes plastered to my skin and everything in me tighter than before.
The outdoor shower gets the sand off.
Nothing else.
By the time I’m dry and dressed in something borrowed and oversized, the house is still quiet and warm.
I stop outside his door.
It’s closed.
I almost knock and catch myself.
He’s in there. Awake, probably. In the same bed where I climbed on top of him and offered what I could give without breaking open.
He said no.
“I want more.”
What am I supposed to do with a man who makes me feel safer and more exposed at the same time?
If he’d taken what I was willing to give, the rules would be clear again. Men are easier to survive when they behave the way you expect them to. I’d know exactly where to put him—one more hot mistake, one more body, one more exit.
But he didn’t.
He asked for the part of me I’ve spent years protecting with distance, speed, and uncomplicated endings. I can’t knock on that door without changing the terms.
So I turn away.
I sink down on the sofa, the ache catching up now that the adrenaline has burned off.
The house stays quiet. The morning light climbs across the ceiling, and I stop lying to myself.
Last night didn’t end anything.
It changed the terms.
The ring catches the early light—quiet, small, impossible to ignore. I should take it off. I can’t. Not yet.
I’m still wearing it. Still here. Still acting like there’s a way back.
There isn’t.
I pull up the ferry schedule. The first boat back to the city leaves at seven.
This isn’t practical. It’s retreat.
I do it anyway.