Chapter Nineteen #2
“It’s not the best,” I admit with a shrug, “but it works well to soak up the alcohol.”
I open the freezer, try to joke about my pathetic bachelor meals, but she just shakes her head.
Her eyes are heavy, her body too exhausted to care.
I manage to get her to drink some water, and I hand her Advil and wait silently until she swallows it with a long sigh.
That’s all I can get her to take. It’s not enough, not even close, but it’s something, and right now I’ll take anything that helps.
We settle into the couch. A blanket covers her legs; her socked feet tuck under her.
She pulls her knees up and leans into me, fitting against my side the way she always has.
Her head slides under my jaw, and I shift, curling an arm around her shoulders.
I rub slow, even circles into the side of her thigh, deliberate and patient, feeling how soft she is, how her breath evens under my arm.
She exhales, and I hope she feels safe here with me.
I want her to feel safe. I want her to know she can need me, that nothing will keep me from being here with her.
I want her to remember the Sunny I met at twenty, the loud one with the sharp mouth and the laugh that made everyone around her lean in, because she is still that girl. She is still my Sunny.
“Do you ever think—what if things had ended up differently?” she asks underneath her breath.
I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”
She curls tighter and presses her forehead against my shoulder. “Like… everything is a butterfly effect, right? All those tiny choices we make, what shoes to wear, which road to take, they lead us down paths.”
“Okay, I’m following.”
“Well, if I hadn’t followed Josh to college, I wouldn’t have matched with Margo for housing.
If I hadn’t matched with Margo, she and Josh would never have met.
If they never met, they don’t get married.
If they don’t get married, he’s not on that road getting groceries when the car hits them.
” Her words tumble out, urgent and fragile.
I swallow, because everything in me tightens at the edges of that logic. “Sunny,” I say slowly, “your choices didn’t put them in that car.” My hand moves from her thigh to her hand.
“But it feels like it. Like one tiny decision could have rewritten everything.”
“I get why you think that,” I tell her. My thumb keeps moving over her knuckles without thinking, and the motion steadies my voice.
“But the world doesn’t work like a neat math problem where every small choice adds up to catastrophe.
There are other variables, things that are outside anyone’s control.
The guy who ran the light made choices. That’s not on you. Not on Josh. Not on Margo.”
“So you think it was random?”
“Not exactly random,” I say. “Messy, yes. Complicated, definitely. The small choices nudge us; the big ones, the out-of-character, reckless ones, can yank us off course. But you didn’t design that wreck.
None of you did. I have to choose to believe that this all has to be for a reason, some bigger purpose that I can’t fully grasp.
And that some small, meaningless, everyday choice didn’t decide the fate of my best friend. ”
Her voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear it.
“I wonder if somehow, somewhere else, there’s a life where he’s alive.
Maybe in that life, I never went to his college.
Maybe I never met Margo. Maybe you never met Josh.
” Her fingers twist the blanket, small, nervous motions.
I can feel her almost say it. That in another world, with one small decision, she would have never met me.
But I don’t want to imagine a life where I never met her.
I look down at her, at the way her mouth tightens, and I let the truth inside me push through before I can overthink it.
“Listen,” I say. “Even if you took a different route, even if the map looks completely different,” I pause, because the honest thing is shorter and sharper than any careful argument, “I would have met you.”
She looks up, startled, eyes wide in the dim light. I can see the idea land, friction mixed with surprise, and maybe a tiny bloom of something like hope. I don’t soften it with caveats. I don’t dress it up. I just say it again, quieter.
“I think I was always meant to find you. Somehow. Somewhere. In this world, in this alternate world, I would have found you.”
“I like the idea of that,” she mutters against my chest.
I’m not sure how much of tonight she’ll remember tomorrow, but I hope she holds onto that.
“Hey, Rhett?”
“Yeah, Sunny?”
“I’m really sorry your mom couldn’t see the type of man you are.”
I swallow, not being able to think past her words. I can feel her eyes on me. She notices my hesitation.
“I know it’s not the same,” she says softly. “And I know it doesn’t heal what she broke. But I’ll always be here for you. Even if you have to move away again, even if life pulls you in a hundred different directions, you’ll always have me in your corner.”
She shifts slightly against me, pressing a little closer, and I feel the warmth of her presence in a way that makes it hard to breathe normally.
“I—I just think you should know my friendship is unconditional,” she continues.
I take a deep breath, feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen slightly.
“Thanks, Sunny.”
I adjust my arm around her, letting her rest more fully against me.
This all feels so natural with her. I realize that for the first time in a long while, I don’t have to brace for someone leaving.
I don’t have to calculate how long it will be before they disappear.
I can just… be here with her, here with someone who chooses to stay.
And somehow, that small, quiet truth—that someone wants to be here, fully, without conditions—feels like the first piece of healing I’ve had in years.
Not long after, her eyes flutter closed. She is not asleep yet, but the tension drains out of her limbs, and the fight leaves her body. I press my mouth to the crown of her head and stay that way, breathing slowly so she can match me.
I promise myself, right then, that nobody gets to make her feel small again.
I hear her before I see her.
The soft shuffle of bare feet across the hardwood, slow and uncertain, like she isn’t sure where she’s landed or why her skull feels like it’s splitting in two.
When I glance up from the kitchen island, she’s just rounding the corner. She blinks against the morning light, hair a tangled mess, makeup smudged beneath her eyes. She’s still wearing the oversized hoodie and my boxers, her bare legs goosebumped from the chill in the air.
“Hey, sunshine,” I say, sliding the hot mug across the counter in her direction.
She squints at it, then at me. “It’s too early in the morning for dangerous nicknames, don’t ya think?”
“I’ll choose to ignore the hostility since you haven’t had your chai tea.” She grabs the mug. “Extra cinnamon. No whip.”
She picks it up with both hands, her fingers wrapping around the ceramic. She brings it to her nose, breathes in, then takes a sip.
I watch her closely. The way her shoulders ease with the first taste. The way her whole body subtly unclenches.
She mutters, “Oh my God. You, Rhett Hayes, are a saint.”
“And one more thing,” I reach for the donut box and pop the lid open. “There’s a jelly-filled in here calling your name.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “It’s bold of you to assume I can eat sugar right now.”
“You did cry into my neck and tell me your soul was dehydrated,” I remind her, grabbing a glazed for myself. “This is just replenishment.”
She rounds the corner and lowers herself onto a barstool. With her elbows on the counter, she grabs a jelly donut like she has been starving for one. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Did I really say that?” she mumbles into her mug, voice rough.
“Yeah.” I lean on the counter, watching her bite the donut. “Those were the exact words. You also promised to eat frozen waffles, then stared me down when I made them and called them ‘fundamentally repulsive.’ I am still recovering from that one.”
A half smile tugs at her lips. The small movement makes me want to hold onto it.
I need to see her like this more than I want to admit.
I should feel relieved that she said everything last night, that she finally let it out.
Instead, I feel hot with anger that it took this long for her to be comfortable enough to let me in.
I’m angrier that someone like Ben made her doubt herself, angrier that he treats her like she is nothing.
I want to break something. Preferably his face.
She shifts and winces as she sips.
“You feeling okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “My head’s splitting. My mouth tastes like what I believe is Tequila regret. But otherwise, peachy. Fortunately, I do not remember how tragic I was being. How embarrassed should I be? On a scale of 1-10, come on, give it to me straight, Rhett. I can take it.”
“Like a 2? You were honest,” I say, softer now. “And sad. And completely obliterated.”
She groans into her drink. “I’m never drinking again.”
“Lies.” I shoot back.
“I’m serious.”
“You said the same thing that one New Year’s, then took Tequila shots out of a measuring cup.”
“Maybe I should stop drinking Tequila.” She peeks at me over the rim of her mug. “Why do you remember all of this?”
“I remember fondly, that’s all,” I say. “I enjoy our friendship.”
Her thumb presses into the ceramic mug, and she nods once, small. I nudge the donut box closer to her, just in case she raids it again.
“I, uh…” I scratch the back of my neck, gesturing toward the hallway. “I laid a clean towel out in the bathroom if you want to shower before heading home. The cabinet’s got spare clothes. It’s my stuff, but it’s clean. Big and soft. Whatever you need.”
She looks up. “Thank you, Rhett.”
“Anytime.”
She glances down the hall, then back at me. “Did you sleep on the couch?”
“Guest room,” I say, leaning on the counter with a donut in my hand. “Didn’t want to wake you. You were finally out.”
“You didn’t want to sleep in your own bed?” Her brow furrows.
I shrug and take a bite. “I figured you needed it more than I did.”
She stares at me for a beat, then drops her eyes. “Right. Thanks.”
I grin a little, trying to cut through whatever guilt she’s starting to spiral into. “Besides, you were starfished across the whole thing. No room for me even if I wanted it.”
Her head snaps up. “Was I?”
“Like a menace,” I say, grabbing another donut. “But a cute one.”
She groans, dragging the sleeve of my hoodie up over her face so she can disappear into it. Her hair flops forward, wild and unbrushed, and I can’t help the smile tugging at the edge of my mouth.
I lean closer over the counter, chewing slowly, watching her just exist—barefaced, bundled in my clothes, as she heads towards the bathroom. Her shoulders are still tense, but there is a smile on her face.
“I’m going to try and shower this hangover off me. Thanks again, Rhett.” She lifts her tea in a little wave as she disappears down the hall.
And hell, if she isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.