Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
STELLA
I’ve been sitting in my new BMW outside Grumpy’s for ten minutes, white knuckling the steering wheel like I’m preparing for a crash landing instead of a conversation.
The air-con hums around me—soft and sterile—but it does nothing to cool the furnace of nerves bubbling beneath my skin.
The leather seat that felt luxurious and empowering this morning now feels like it’s trying to swallow me whole.
I’ve never hated a steering wheel until today.
Through the pub’s wide windows, I spot Doc in the corner booth, hands curled around a mug like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
He looks smaller somehow, like life’s worn him down into the folds of his flannel shirt.
His posture slumps in a way that makes my chest ache—a heaviness in the shoulders, a hollow set to his jaw.
Age, guilt, grief… they all cling to him like oil on concrete.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. Jake’s name lights up the screen like a lifeline.
Jake
You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.
Stella
I need to. For me—not for him.
Jake
Five mins away if you want backup.
Stella
I love you.
Jake
Love you too. You’ve got this, darl.
A shaky breath rattles out of me. I close my eyes and picture Jake’s voice in my ear, his hand warm and steady at the small of my back. The man has become my anchor in ways I never thought I’d let someone be again.
I reach for my bag and open the door. Late-arvo sun spills across the pavement like honey—thick and golden—but my skin prickles cold despite the warmth. Every step toward the pub feels like trudging through wet cement. My stomach tightens, throat thick with things unsaid.
Inside, Grumpy’s is quiet in that in-between hour—too late for lunch, too early for the post-work rush. Logan spots me immediately.
“Stella! What brings you by? Where’s your gorgeous mechanic?”
“He’s coming later,” I manage. My voice doesn’t shake, which feels like a small miracle. “I’m meeting someone first.”
Logan’s gaze slides to Doc’s booth. His brows lift knowingly. “Doc’s been nursing that coffee for twenty minutes, looking like he’s about to freak out.”
“That sounds about right,” I mutter.
He studies me a little closer, then tilts his head. “Want something strong?”
“Please. Surprise me with whatever you’d serve before a funeral.”
“Coming right up. And hey—whatever this is, you look like you’re walking in with your head held high. That counts for something.”
His words wrap around me like a thin layer of courage. I square my shoulders, inhale deeply, and cross the room.
Doc sees me when I’m halfway to the table.
He straightens, the lines of his face tightening.
When he stands halfway out of the booth, I catch the flicker of disbelief and guilt in his eyes.
It’s a sucker punch seeing that face again—not just older, but lonelier.
The same man who laughed over engine grease and called me “kid” with affection now looks like he hasn’t slept right in years.
“Stella,” he says, voice low and rough, like he’s been rehearsing it for hours. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Neither was I.” I slide into the booth without waiting for an invitation. “But here I am.”
Logan sets down my drink. It’s pink, in a crystal-cut glass, and smells like it could strip paint off a car.
Perfect.
I take a healthy sip. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”
Doc cradles his coffee like it might tell him what to say. He runs a hand through his greying hair and, for a second, he looks just like the man I used to admire. It hurts.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“How about with why?” My voice sharpens. “Why you disappeared a week after Mum’s funeral. Why you cut me out when I had no one else.”
He flinches—visibly. I don’t soften it. I’ve spent six years cushioning that blow in my own head. I deserve to say it out loud.
“You looked so much like her,” he says hoarsely. “At the graveside… in that black dress, with your hair pulled back… for a moment, I thought I was looking at Nicole again.”
“So you ran.”
His eyes squeeze shut. “So I ran. Every time I looked at you, it was like losing her all over again. Same eyes. Same smile. The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous. You were her—down to your bones. And I couldn’t—” He breaks off, voice rough. “I couldn’t handle it.”
The silence stretches between us, jagged and raw. I sip my drink, trying to piece myself together. His explanation isn’t pretty. But it’s finally something.
“You were grieving too,” I say slowly. “I get that. But I was eighteen. I was alone. You were the only person left who gave a shit about me.”
“I know.” His voice fractures. “Christ, Stella, I know. That’s what makes it so unforgivable.”
“You’re right. It is.”
The words hang in the air like a dropped wrench—loud, final.
“You abandoned me,” I go on, quieter now. “Because it was easier to disappear than face your own pain. And in doing that, you taught me I wasn’t worth the fight. You made me feel disposable.”
“I never thought that,” he says quickly, eyes shining. “You mattered more than anything. That’s what made it unbearable. Seeing you meant remembering I failed her. That I failed you.”
“You didn’t fail Mum. Cancer isn’t something you fix with a wrench.” I pause. “But yeah—you failed me. You had a choice, and you chose to leave.”
“I regret it every single day,” he murmurs. “I’ve written texts I never sent. Dialled your number, then hung up. I wanted to say sorry. I didn’t think I had the right.”
“Why now?”
“Because I saw you. Saw the workshop. Saw you. And I realised I’d missed it all. Missed you. Suddenly, doing nothing wasn’t an option anymore.”
I study him—really study him. He’s not lying. But he’s also not asking me to pretend the past didn’t happen.
“That version of me,” I say at last. “The one you abandoned. She’s gone. I had to bury her too.”
His eyes brim with tears again. “I know.”
I take another long drink, and the alcohol spreads warmly through my chest. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
He nods like he expected it. “That’s fair.”
“But maybe I can try.”
Doc breathes out like I’ve handed him oxygen. “That’s more than I deserve.”
“Damn right,” I mutter. “But I’m doing it for me. Because carrying all that hurt has been exhausting.”
He nods again, wiping a hand across his face. “What you’ve done with the workshop… Nicole would be so proud. You’re her daughter through and through.”
“I had to be tough. You made sure of that.”
I don’t say it with venom—just truth. He nods, accepting it.
“I’m dating Jake,” I tell him, watching his reaction.
“I figured—from the way he looked like he wanted to rearrange my face the other day.” A faint chuckle. “He loves you.”
“He does.” I can’t help the smile; that part comes easily. “He’s taught me love doesn’t mean running away when it's hard. It means staying. Showing up.”
Doc’s expression crumples, but he meets my gaze. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll do whatever it takes to earn even a sliver of your trust again.”
I nod. Not ready to offer more than that. But it’s a start.
As if summoned, I feel Jake before I see him. His presence fills the space beside me—warm, steady, protective. His hand slides over my shoulder, grounding me instantly.
“Everything okay?” he asks, eyes locked on Doc.
“We’re good,” I murmur, covering his hand with mine.
Jake studies Doc for a beat, then offers his hand. “Doc.”
“Jake. Thanks for loving her the way she deserves.”
Jake nods. “She doesn’t need looking after. But I’ll always stand by her. No matter what.”
They shake. And for the first time in six years, I feel like maybe the cracks between past and present don’t have to stay broken.
Jake slides into the booth beside me, one hand on my thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. Doc glances between us. “So… what now?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe coffee. Maybe you visit the shop. Maybe we try.”
“No pressure,” he says quickly. “Whatever you need. Your pace. Your terms.”
“Exactly.”
“And if you change your mind?”
“Then you respect it.”
He nods, firm. “You have my word.”
We rise to leave, and Doc stands too.
“Stella?” he calls.
I turn.
“I really am proud of you. Nicole would be too.”
This time, when he says it, the ache in my chest is softer. Mournful, not hollow.
Outside, the evening breeze brushes my skin. Jake pulls me close and kisses the top of my head.
“How are you feeling?”
“Exhausted. But lighter. Like I finally put something down I’ve been dragging for years.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“I had backup,” I whisper. “You made it easier to be brave.”
Jake squeezes my waist. “Always, darl. Whatever comes next, I’m right beside you.”
By the time we get home, the sun’s dipped behind the trees, streaking gold across the sky like someone took a paintbrush to the clouds.
Jake unlocks the door and steps aside so I can walk in first, his hand lingering at the small of my back, reminding me he’s still here.
Still mine. He officially moved in last week.
He spent so much time here it just made sense, and I’ve loved having his stuff entwined with mine—even if he doesn’t know how to put his socks in the laundry basket.
As soon as the door closes, I lean against it and exhale deeply. “Well. That was a lot.”
Jake turns, eyes scanning my face, reading every micro-expression like a mechanic diagnosing an engine by sound alone. “You okay?”
“I think so.” I manage a small smile. “It didn’t fix anything… but it didn’t break me either.”
He nods, stepping closer. “You were incredible in there. Strong. Calm. Brutally honest.”
“I felt like I was vibrating the whole time. Like my chest was full of bees.”
“Still are?”
“A few.” I exhale, tugging at my shirt hem. “But they’re quieter now.”
He brushes his lips along my jaw. “You want to talk more, or… want a distraction?”
I tilt my head, catching the mischievous glint in his eyes. “Is it wrong that I kind of want to be ruined right now?”