Chapter 25
“Son of a—” I bite back the curse as another strip of light blue wallpaper refuses to align with the previous one. Pulling it back carefully, I try again, determined to get this right before Tiff and Ella arrive in two days.
My muscles ache from practice, but this is more important than rest. Ella's playroom needs to be perfect. After everything they've been through, I want their first impression of their new home to be magical.
“Come on, you piece of shit,” I mutter, pressing the seam flat only to have another bubble appear a few inches away.
My phone buzzes on the stepladder, and I grab it, hoping it's Honey. But it's just another email from a sponsor asking for a last-minute appearance at some event. I ignore it, tossing the phone back onto the ladder with more force than necessary.
I'm exhausted. Between practice, sponsor obligations, team meetings, and now preparing the house for Tiff and Ella, I can't remember the last time I had a full night's sleep.
And yet, I'm still expected to be the star quarterback, the model athlete, the face of the program, always smiling, always accommodating. I’m always expected to be on.
And if I’m being honest, it's starting to wear me down.
“I should've just paid someone to do this,” I mutter, stretching to smooth out another bubble. The stepladder wobbles precariously beneath me.
“And miss the chance to see Zach Evans defeated by adhesive paper? Never.”
I nearly fall off the ladder at the sound of Honey's voice.
Turning, I find her leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and a small smile playing on her lips.
She's wearing jeans and my sweatshirt, her hair is loose around her shoulders, and even with the tension that's been building between us lately, the sight of her makes my heart skip. I have a feeling it always will.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, climbing down.
“Long enough to hear you threaten bodily harm to wet paper.” Her smile widens. “Need help?”
“God, yes.” I run a hand through my hair, not caring that it's probably sticking up in all directions now. “I've got the adhesive everywhere except where it's supposed to go.”
She steps into the room, surveying my handiwork with an appraising eye. The first wall is mostly covered, though several seams don't quite match up, and there's an unfortunate wrinkle running down the center of the wall, but I'll cover that with a TV.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” she says diplomatically.
“Liar.” I can't help but laugh. “It looks like I let a toddler do it. Fitting, I guess, since it's for Ella.”
“She'll love it no matter what,” Honey assures me, picking up the next roll of wallpaper. “The color alone will win her over. Very Queen Blanca from Iced Out.”
“I hope so.” I watch as she measures and cuts carefully, her movements much more confident than mine. “How do you know what you’re doing?”
“When I was thirteen, my mother hired a designer for our Aspen vacation home. I was dragged along and since I had no friends there, I asked the designer if I could help. My mother hated it, but she wasn’t around long enough to stop me.
” She shrugs, and I know it’s supposed to be a nothing burger of a story, but it tells me so much about her.
About how alone she’s always been, and never really fitting in.
“I didn't know that,” I say quietly.
Something flickers across her face—a sadness that I first started seeing last night. “There's a lot we haven't talked about lately, isn't there?”
The directness of her question catches me off guard. I was expecting to ease into this conversation, to find the right moment after we'd finished with the playroom, but maybe there's no perfect moment for the truth.
“Yeah,” I admit. “There is.”
She nods, then gestures to the wallpaper. “Let's work while we talk. You hold this end up, and I'll smooth it out.”
We position ourselves on opposite ends of the strip, and I watch as she aligns it carefully with the previous piece. Her focus is intense, her movements precise.
“So,” she says after a moment, “I need to tell you something.”
My stomach clenches, but I keep my voice steady, refusing to believe she’s about to tell me she’s been cheating on me. “I'm listening.”
“I've been going to the hockey rink to see Chris,” she says, her eyes still on the wallpaper.
Well, fuck. She’s just going to come out and immediately rip my heart out, isn’t she?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I hold my breath, wrinkling up the wallpaper, but what does it matter if she’s gone?
“It’s been… a sanctuary, I guess. Somewhere quiet where people can’t get to me.”
“I know Chris has feelings for you,” I say, preempting what she’s about to tell me.
Her head snaps up, her eyes wide. “How did you—”
“Please, Honey. I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” I admit. “Then there are the TikToks.”
“TikToks?” she echoes, looking genuinely confused. “What TikToks?”
I put down my corner of the wallpaper and pull out my phone, opening one of the links Dax sent. Honey's face pales as she watches the compilation, her hand rising to cover her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “I had no idea… This makes it look like—”
“Like you and Chris are a thing,” I finish for her. “Yeah, that's the point. Whoever made these wants people to think you're cheating on me.”
She looks up at me, her eyes suddenly fierce. “But I'm not. I would never—”
“I know. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To tell me.”
“No. Not at all,” she says in disbelief. “I talked to Chris today,” she says, returning to the wallpaper with renewed focus. “And he admitted he finds me attractive, but he respects our relationship. He's not trying to come between us.”
“And you believe him?”
Her hands pause on the wallpaper. “I do. He's been a good friend to me, Zach. When I couldn't find my place at St. Michael's, when the internship started crushing me, when those anonymous messages kept coming—he gave me somewhere to escape to.”
“I wish it could have been me,” I say softly. “I wish that you felt like you could have escaped to me.”
Her shoulders go tight, her fingers smoothing the same seam of wallpaper again and again like she can press the words back down with her fingers.
“You think I didn’t want it to be you?” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts straight through me.
She doesn’t look at me, just keeps worrying the paper, her jaw trembling.
“You’re the only place that’s ever felt like home, Zach.
But lately… every time I walk through your door, I feel like I’m bringing all my broken pieces with me.
And I didn’t want you to have to carry them. ”
Finally, she glances over, and her eyes are wet, blazing with something that looks a lot like shame.
“So I ran somewhere I could fall apart without disappointing you.”
“You would never disappoint me, Honey.”
“But I disappoint myself. I don't know what I want, what I'm good at, what makes me happy. The internship was supposed to help me figure that out, but I hate it. I'm terrible at it. And the only thing that feels right anymore is being with you, which just makes me more dependent, and lost.”
I step closer, taking her hands in mine. They're sticky with wallpaper adhesive, but I don't care. “You're not lost, Honey. You're finding your way, and I'm not trying to define you—I just want to be beside you while you figure it out.”
“But what if there's nothing to figure out?” she asks, her vulnerability laid bare. “What if I'm just… empty? A reflection of whatever people want me to be?”
“That's the furthest thing from the truth,” I say fiercely. “You're the strongest person I know. You stood up to your father for Tiff. You endured all that gossip and harassment in high school and here at St. Michael's. You've never let anyone tell you who to be or what to want.”
Her throat works like she’s swallowing glass. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she whispers. “I’ve spent so long proving everyone wrong that I don’t even know what proving me right looks like.”
I slide my hands up her arms, slow and steady, until I can frame her face between my palms. Her eyes are wet, wide, and wild.
“You don’t need to have all the answers right now. We can figure it out together.” And fuck, I will do anything to make sure we can.
Her bottom lip trembles, and for a second I think she’s going to pull away.
“I don’t know if I can,” she says finally, and it guts me because I know she means it. “What if staying just means I end up breaking you with me?”
“You won’t,” I say without hesitation. “And even if you did, I’d still choose you. Every broken, brilliant part of you.”
Her laugh is small and hesitant. “I don’t deserve that.”
“You don’t have to deserve it,” I say. “You just have to let me love you while you figure out how to love yourself.”
She presses her forehead to mine like she’s trying to fuse us together, piece by trembling piece, until her mouth is on me.
Desperate, hungry, messy.
When she pulls back, her eyes are glassy but sharp. I can see the guilt carved into every line of her face.
“Last night,” she whispers, her throat tight. “I hate the way I came here. Drunk and desperate with the idea that if I could just get you inside me, it would fix everything I was feeling.”
“Honey—”
She shakes her head, her eyes glassy, but unflinching.
“I thought if I forced it—if I forced you— then maybe I’d finally feel something besides empty, but that wasn’t fair. Not to you, not to us.” Her hand slides down my chest, her voice trembling but sure. “I'm sorry for showing up like that.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say, catching her hand and bringing it to my lips. “You were hurting. You came to me. That's what I want you to do.”
“But not like that,” she insists. “Not when I'm using you as a band-aid for everything else falling apart.”
I hold her gaze, searching for the right words. “Then we'll do better. Both of us. We'll talk more. You'll tell me when things are too much, and I'll—” I pause, thinking about how I've been keeping my own stress bottled up. “I'll do the same.”
She nods slowly, and I can see the weight lifting slightly from her shoulders.
“Can I stay?” she asks quietly. “Help you finish this?”
“I'd like that.”
We return to the wallpaper, working in comfortable silence now. Our hands brush every now and again as we smooth out the seams. The tension between us has shifted, transformed into something that we can work with.
By the time we finish the last strip, the room is transformed. The walls glow with that perfect Queen Blanca blue, and I can already picture Ella's face when she sees it.
Honey steps back, surveying our work with a satisfied smile. “She's going to love it.”
“We make a good team,” I say, slipping my arm around her waist.
She leans into me, her body fitting perfectly against mine, and for a moment everything feels right again, but as I press a kiss to the top of her head, I can feel how tightly she’s holding herself together.
She’s one wrong word away from shattering completely, and I’m going to make sure she doesn’t have a chance to break while she’s in my arms. Not today. Not ever.
I’m not stupid, though. Paint and promises don’t fix the cracks, and as we stand in this room that we made for someone else, I can’t shake the thought that I might not be enough to hold this beautiful, broken girl together anymore.