16. Sawyer
Sawyer
I’ve been curled up in bed, the door locked and cable TV on for background noise. Some rerun of Law and Order that I couldn’t care less about. I just needed something to muffle my cries so Mom doesn’t try to burst in again.
I’ve been this way since driving Owen’s car back here this afternoon.
Crying on and off, feeling like the absolute worst person in existence.
Every time I pick up the ring box, I feel like vomiting.
I probably would if my stomach wasn’t completely empty.
Instead, I dry heave, choking on tears and mucus, and wishing I could blink and take it all back.
The accident. The kiss. Not answering when he called. Hell, even the years of back and forth between the three of us.
All of it.
Owen’s phone sits on my nightstand, plugged into his charger. It took forever to come to life with the battery completely drained. When it finally powered on, the notifications started rolling in. Dozens of missed calls. Text messages. Voicemails I can’t bring myself to listen to yet.
I reach for it now, my hands shaking as I type in his passcode.
I’m not even sure why I feel the need to look through it.
Probably just to feel close to him again.
Maybe to remind myself that what we had was real, that he loved me and I loved him, and his phone might be the last piece of him to hold those memories.
His wallpaper is a photo of us from December when we took the train from Ashford into the city to see the tree.
We’re all bundled up, smiling although there were crowds of people all around us.
His arm is around my shoulder, pulling me in close, and behind us stands the Rockefeller Center tree with its thousands of twinkling lights.
We look so happy. So normal. Like nothing could ever go wrong.
That day was perfect. Even with me spilling hot chocolate down my shirt, and him stepping in a questionable puddle while walking onto the subway platform.
We froze our asses off and braved crowds of tourists, but none of that mattered.
It was one of those days that made me happy to have chosen a life with Owen.
My throat tightens as I open the photo app. I must be a glutton for punishment because the second I look at the sheer number of photos, I have to put it down and collect myself. There are hundreds of them, thousands probably, going back at least five years.
When I work up the nerve again, I scroll through the most recent ones.
The first is a selfie of the two of us at Wonder World.
Now that I see it, I remember him taking it near the ring toss booth.
My eyes sting but I keep going. More from Wonder World—a selfie of him and Ella in front of the Big Top Cafe, his arm around her and both of them beaming.
That must have been when Knox cornered me outside the restrooms. There’s another of Ella and I walking ahead of him.
When I zoom in, I realize how tense I looked, how stiff.
I swipe past and find pictures of heart-shaped pancakes on a paper plate.
I laugh despite the tears clogging my throat.
There’s a few sunset shots in front of the cottage.
A screenshot of a dumb meme. There’s a picture of me sleeping in his car on the way to Lake Mercer.
Candids from the last dinner party we went to with his coworkers.
I scroll back further, needing to put some distance between this trip and my memories with Owen.
These are from a few months ago. I remember him posting some on Instagram.
It was spring time, and I was working all weekend.
He was at this bonfire at someone’s house, a whole group crowded around the flames.
There’s Ella, laughing at something off camera. I didn’t realize she was there.
A soft knock at the door startles me, and I shove Owen’s phone under my pillow like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I’ll have to examine the reasons why that was my instinct later.
“Sawyer?” Mom says through the door. “Honey, are you hungry? I was going to order some takeout. I’m thinking pizza. It’s the closest place around.”
“I’m fine,” I call back, my voice hoarse from crying.
“You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She pauses and I know she’s on the other side of the door, debating whether to push harder. Lucky for me, she relents.
“Okay, well, let me know if you change your mind.”
Her footsteps fade and when I know she has to be back in the living room, I release a shaky breath and pull Owen’s phone back out from under the pillow.
But this time it feels like a brick in my hand. I don’t have it in me to keep looking. Not right now.
I set it back on the nightstand and pick up the ring box instead. Open it. Close it. Open it. The diamond catches the light from the TV, gleaming. It’s beautiful. As I look at it more, it really does remind me of Owen. It’s classic, thoughtful, and safe.
Everything I should want.
My lips still feel warm where Knox kissed me. I can still feel his hands on my waist, the way his fingers pressed into my skin like he was trying to memorize the shape of me. The way he groaned when I pulled him closer.
I snap the ring box shut and press my palms against my eyes.
This can’t happen again.
Those words came from my mouth. They echo in my mind, a promise more for myself than anything.
But I can still taste him.
The sound of tires on gravel pulls me from my spiral. I push myself up and peek through the curtains. It’s too soon for the delivery person to be here.
My heart lurches when I spot Knox’s Jeep. What the hell is he doing here?
There’s a knock, then hinges squeaking as Mom opens the screen door. Their muffled voices float through my closed door and I freeze, trying to hear what they’re saying.
“Sawyer?” Mom calls. “Knox is here. He needs to pick up Owen’s keys.”
Oh. That makes sense, I guess.
I look down at myself still in Owen’s sweatshirt but I traded my leggings for ratty sleep shorts. My hair’s in a messy bun on top of my head. I look exactly how I should, like a girl who’s been crying for six hours straight.
Even if I had the energy to change, what’s the point?
The keys are in my purse, shoved on top of the dresser where I put it as soon as I got back. I grab them and take a breath before unlocking my door.
My legs carry me toward him, shaky but magnetic. I shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him, but each step brings me closer and my body reacts without permission, my breath catching and heart racing, like it’s been trained to want him and forgot it’s not supposed to.
Mom and Knox are in the entryway. He’s wearing different clothes than earlier. Dark jeans and a black T-shirt, the color making his bruises stand out. His hair is still damp like he just showered.
His eyes find mine the second I come around the corner, and the way he’s looking at me has heat flooding to my face. I know he can tell by the way he swallows hard.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
I close the space between us, hyperaware of Mom standing right there, watching my every move like I’ll collapse into sobs at the drop of a hat.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” she says, squeezing my shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.
The silence stretches on as we stare at each other. Knox pushes a hand through his hair, swallowing hard, probably searching for the right thing to say. I hold out the keys, keeping my arm extended to maintain as much distance as possible.
“Here.”
He takes them, and even though I’m trying to avoid contact, our fingers brush for half a second. It’s nothing. Barely a graze.
But I feel it everywhere.
“Thanks. My dad wanted them tonight. For the—” He hesitates, shaking his head. “The bank is going to collect it.”
“Right.”
That makes sense. Richard forced Knox to come here. He has a reason, a purpose. Owen’s car will disappear, just like every other piece of him.
The keys jingle as he shoves them in his pocket. He should leave now…should turn around and walk out that door and we should never be alone together again.
But he doesn’t move.
“Are you okay?”
The question is so absurd, I almost laugh. “No.”
His throat bobs and he pulls his free hand through his hair again. “Yeah. Stupid question.”
“Where’s Ella?”
“She’s back at the house.” He stops. Swallows. “Helping my mom with the plans.”
I nod, not sure why I asked about her to begin with, but now that I know she’s there planning Owen’s services and I’m not, it hurts. I blink back tears.
“Sawyer—”
“Don’t.” I take a step back, wrapping my arms around myself. “Please don’t.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “I wasn’t going to touch you.”
“Yes, you were. And I can’t. We can’t.”
“I know.”
But he’s looking at me like he wants to cross the three feet of space between us and finish what we started at the park. Like he’s fighting the same war I am, knowing what’s right and wanting the complete opposite.
The air is thick with unsaid thoughts. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“Knox.” His name sounds like a plea from my lips. I don’t even fucking know what I want to say. What I want to do.
He takes one step toward me. Just one. But it’s enough to make my knees weak.
“Tell me to leave,” he says. “Tell me to walk out that door and never come back.”
I should. God, I should.
My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
He takes another step. We’re close enough now that I can see the fast rise and fall of his chest. That I catch the scent of his body wash, clean and crisp and intoxicating.
“Sawyer.”
I sway forward unconsciously, my body betraying me, and his hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. My breath hitches, and I want more. I want to be close enough that I can breathe him in.
“Honey, I might make some iced tea. You want some?”
Mom’s voice has me jumping back a step. I’d forgotten she was here. Why does this happen every time I’m near him?