Chapter Twenty-two
RACHEL
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
Sissy Margs:
You want me and Anderson to swing by and grab you?
Me:
All good. I'll just meet you there.
I make my way to the breakroom. The heat hangs stubbornly, even with the A/C still humming in the car. I sit for a minute before turning off the engine, dragging my badge from around my neck, and tossing it into my bag.
Work had been a mix of steady and emotionally draining.
I spent most of the afternoon helping a patient in his forties relearn how to step onto a stair.
His leg had been shattered in a car accident six months ago: multiple surgeries, days spent in the hospital, pins, and metal plates.
Now he is feeling angry more than anything else.
At the pain. At the time it was taking. At needing help.
I’d stood next to him, guiding his steps, watching his frustration tip toward rage and then buckle under the weight of it.
At one point, he sat down hard on the mat and said, “It’s like I’m not even me anymore.
” I didn’t know what to say except that healing is slow, but it doesn’t make it any less real or valid.
But watching him, I realized something: he is doing all the work to find his way back to himself.
And if he can do that, maybe I can, too.
Breaking up with Ben had been an important step in reclaiming myself, but it was just the first one. I know now that the journey isn’t over—not even close. There is more to do, more edges of myself to uncover. A thousand more pieces of myself to stitch back together.
I walk out of the break room and head over to my office. The application link Faier emailed me is open, waiting on my computer like a challenge I can’t ignore. I click it. The page loads, and I start filling in the details.
I can do this, right? If they think I can, maybe I really can.
The cursor blinks at me on the final page, and doubt sneaks in like a shadow at the edge of the room. My hand hovers over the “Apply” button. I feel the weight of everything—the fear of failing, of putting myself out there—and instead of clicking “Submit”, I hit “Save Application.”
There’s still time. I have until the Tuesday after Labor Day to apply. I can come back. I can review and revise my application. I can apply when I’m ready. And maybe that is enough for now.
I grab my things and step into the heat, heading toward my car. Once I get home, I unlock the front door, push inside, and kick my shoes off.
The silence hits first.
Ben’s stuff is gone. Closet space is half-empty, and bathroom drawers are finally cleared out. His jacket isn’t hanging by the door. No keys on the hook. I didn’t expect it to feel so freeing.
I drop my bag on the counter and walk into the bedroom.
His dresser is empty. I open a drawer out of habit and close it just as quickly.
It is strange how quickly a space shifts when someone’s presence is removed.
It feels as if I can finally breathe a full, deep breath.
A smile stretches my face wide, and I do a happy twirl.
Okay, I need to focus. I’ve got to get ready for dinner.
The lake trip is this weekend. Labor Day Weekend.
It is all anyone in the group chat has been talking about: who’s driving, who’s bringing what, how early they should leave.
I said I’d just meet everyone there. It’s easier that way.
No small talk, no awkward car ride or questions about Ben and why he isn’t on this trip.
Tonight, we’re meeting at Gritty’s for dinner and drinks to go over plans.
Only Margo and Anderson know Ben and I broke up, seeing as I had to crash at their place until Ben finally moved out. I didn’t make a big thing of it. I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want to hear how they all secretly hated him and wished I’d done it earlier. I just want to move forward.
I shower, then work through my skincare without thinking much about it.
My hair is damp when I towel it dry, and I curl it until it falls in loose waves around my shoulders.
I stand in front of my closet for a few minutes, flipping through hangers before grabbing a cropped tank and my favorite jeans.
I’ve gone no contact with Ben. I wish I could say he is doing the same; however, Ben’s texts have been coming in steadily since we broke up last week.
Last Monday I got:
Ben
Babe, come on. Just come home.
Ben
I miss you so much.
Then Tuesday was:
Ben:
You know I love you…. Right? No one knows you like I do.
Ben:
Please, Rach. Talk to me. Lets work this out, I'm begging you.
Saturday was interesting:
Ben:
This isn't fair.
Ben:
You always said you wanted me to try. I'm trying now. Isn't that what you wanted?
The anger didn’t start until this week.
Ben:
So that's it? You throw everything away over one bad night???
Ben:
Do you even care about what we had? Or was that all fake?
Ben:
I swear to god Rachel if you're screwing him you're dead to me.
Last night:
Ben:
fucj this r u wifh hikm
Ben:
i nver lobed u
He must have been drunk for that one. It came across my phone at 1:37 am.
Thankfully, I haven’t received any today.
I lock up and head down the steps. I open the door to get in the car, and start driving.
The noise of the bar hits as soon as I walk in. There is music playing low from the speakers and the hum of too many conversations happening at once.
I spot them right away in the corner booth. Rhett and Connor are on one side. Anderson is at the end, with a beer already in front of him. There is an empty spot next to him and one on the opposite side. Wes is at the edge of the table, laughing at something Connor just said.
I walk over and slide into the open seat on the opposite side of Anderson, assuming Margo wants to sit next to her man.
“Hey, Rach,” he says, nodding at me. “Perfect timing. We just ordered a round.”
“Good,” I reply, setting my bag down beside me. “I could use one.”
Wes flags the server and adds another beer to the order.
Connor leans forward. “Slone still coming up tomorrow?”
“Yeah, she’s bringing her friend Lexi,” Anderson answers. “She’s working a half day, then driving in to ride up with Margo and me on Friday.”
Rhett takes a sip of his drink. “Glad she’s still in. Wouldn’t feel right without her.”
Connor looks at me next. “Rach, are you bringing Ben?”
“Oh, uh, no. Ben isn’t coming,” I answer, suddenly desperate for that beer.
Thankfully, Wes changes the topic before anyone can ask me why. “So, what’s the plan for Friday? Y’all leaving early?”
Anderson nods. “Trying to. We want to beat the traffic. If we leave around eight, we should get there by noon, depending on stops.”
The waitress drops off the fresh round of beers, and I snag one quickly.
“I’ll probably leave closer to lunch,” I say, taking a long sip. “Still figuring out if I’m going straight from work or taking the day off.”
“You should take it off,” Margo says, sliding into the seat next to Anderson. “It’s not like you won’t work enough next week to make up for it.”
I shrug. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
“I call dibs on a bed that isn’t a twin.” Connor grins.
“You’re not getting the master,” Rhett cuts in. “I know what you’re trying to pull.”
“I just don’t want to wake up with back pain,” Connor says. “Some of us have real jobs, man.”
Rhett looks at him. “We have the same job.”
“It’s not that fancy. But it’s got a dock and enough space for all of us.” Margo just offers a small smile.
Rhett leans back in the booth and shoots me a look. “I’ve always had a good time at that house.”
“Then we need to make this weekend a good one,” Anderson says. “Everyone just relax. No bullshit. No drama.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Margo mutters.
“I’m serious,” he says. “We all need a break.”
The server brings a round of appetizers. Plates get passed, hands reach across the table. The noise rises again, easy and familiar. It’s what I wanted tonight. Something simple and normal.
Margo leans back with her glass of wine, glancing around the table. “Okay, before we get too tipsy, let’s discuss sleeping arrangements.”
Connor wipes buffalo sauce off his fingers with a napkin. “We’re doing that now?”
“Yes, because I don’t want someone to end up pissed about sleeping on the pull-out couch,” she says.
We all nod in agreement.
“I think you could assign me to the floor and I’d be happy to just be getting out of town,” I say flatly.
Margo cuts in, lifting her phone and pulling up a note. “Okay, here’s what we’ve got. There are four real bedrooms. The master is Anderson and me. Duh.”
“Obviously,” Rhett mutters in agreement.
She keeps going. “Slone and Lexi are sharing the upstairs room with the two twins. They’re driving up with us on Friday morning. Connor and Wes get the one downstairs with the full bed.”
Connor raises an eyebrow. “We’re bunking together?”
“Unless you want the pullout couch in the den,” Margo replies, not missing a beat.
Wes snorts. “Nah, I’ll take the full bed. I’ve shared smaller beds with worse company.”
Margo glances over at me, then at Rhett across the table. “Then there’s one more bedroom left. Queen bed. And the pullout couch.”
I set my drink down slowly, picking up the hint of something unsaid in her voice.
“So,” she continues, her tone light, “Rhett and Rachel will have to figure it out between the two of them.”
Rhett lifts his beer, looking unfazed. “I’m not picky.”
I nod, trying to keep my voice casual. “Same.”
Connor smirks. “Just don’t go all Hunger Games over the better mattress.”
“I’ll fight someone,” Rhett says, straight-faced, then glances at me for a split second. “But only if she throws the first punch.”
I shake my head and take a sip of my beer. “I’ll pack a coin, Rhett. Might want to sleep with one eye open.”
Anderson raises his glass. “To a great weekend away.”