Chapter 19
Something snaps in me as I walk away from Will and that damn list.
Not a breakdown.
Not a scream.
Just this quiet, burning click inside my chest like something unhooked and finally gave up pretending to hold on.
My feet move without thinking, but my hands are already digging into my dress, reaching between skin and satin to pull my phone from the curve of my bra. My fingers are trembling. Or maybe I’m just coming back to life.
I scroll until I find the thread.
Nash Kimzey
I stare at his name for a second, then type before I can talk myself out of it.
Hey. I know this is short notice, but are you going to Vegas early?
The message sends.
I keep walking.
The hallway tilts slightly. Not from the dress, or the heels, or even the emotional wreckage in my wake. Just from the rush. From doing something reckless, something I wouldn’t have dared when I still cared about looking whole.
My phone buzzes.
Yeah, I think so. Why?
I’m thinking about heading out early, too. Maybe we can grab a drink.
If you’re still interested.
Then the reply comes in fast.
I’m interested.
It’s a date.
I stop in the hall, blinking at the screen.
A date.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.
Maybe I was too wrapped up in someone who couldn’t love me out loud.
Maybe I forgot what it felt like to be seen.
But now? There’s someone out there who might want to help me finish that list. Someone who could make me believe I’m worth more than being Will’s almost.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I smile.
Not the smile I wear like armor.
A real one.
I’m still smiling when I reach the bridal suite, where Connie and Ruby are standing outside the door, soft moans drifting from inside.
Ruby gestures toward the room. “Sounds like they’re going to be a minute.”
I shake my head, breath catching on something light. Then I laugh. And it’s a little wild. A little tired. But mine.
The wedding unfolds like a painting I’ve seen before. Everything is warm and romantic and perfect. I help Olive get into her dress. Button each pearl along the spine like I’m winding up a music box—delicate, careful, quiet. She looks radiant. The kind of happy that shines through her skin.
We take photos before the ceremony. Group shots. Posed laughter. I stand next to Will in one of them, our arms brushing. We don’t speak. But I feel him watching me every time I look away. And I keep thinking about Nash. About Vegas.
The ceremony starts. Music swells.
I take my place at the front, bouquet steady in my hands.
Olive walks down the aisle and Liam looks at her like he’s never seen the sun until now. The vows are sweet. Raw. Full of words I once dreamed someone would say to me. My throat burns. But I smile.
After they kiss and the crowd cheers, we walk back down the aisle, arms linked with our groomsmen. Will’s hand finds my elbow. Just barely. Just enough to anchor me.
I don’t look at him.
The reception is at Flowers End, glowing like a dream under string lights and candlelit tables. The music’s loud, the food is surprisingly good, and the whole place hums with love and champagne-fueled joy.
People dance. Toasts are made. Laughter floats above the clink of glasses and the scuff of boots on the dance floor.
And me?
I laugh when I’m supposed to. Sip my champagne. Catch the bouquet because Olive insists I have to because, of course, the emotionally shattered bridesmaid should pose for photos with symbolic flowers and pretend she still believes in love.
Will claps along with everyone else, his expression unreadable. But when our eyes meet, something flickers behind his smile. Something tight. Troubled. Suspicious. Like he knows. Like he’s figured out I’m planning something.
And he’s right.
At eleven, I’m off to the side watching Liam twirl Olive around the dance floor, her dress billowing like a fairytale in motion. My throat tightens. I feel like a ghost haunting someone else’s happy ending.
That’s when Will appears beside me.
“Hey,” he says, bumping his shoulder gently against mine.
I don’t answer.
“Phern?” he prompts again, quieter this time.
I blink, pulling myself back to the moment. “Sorry. Just lost in my thoughts.”
I nod toward the room. “You did a good job decorating the bar.”
He shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You make it sound like I hung every strand of lights myself.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” he says, with a half-shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Still didn’t get your attention until now.”
That hits harder than it should. My gaze snaps to his, and I huff out a bitter laugh.
Because of course. Of course he’s still looking for my attention, now that I’m finally done offering it.
Then he asks, casual as anything, “So, what do you have planned tomorrow?”
My heart skips and my breath stalls. He can’t know. Right?
“For the farmer’s market,” he adds quickly, taking a sip of his beer like he didn’t just nearly catch me mid-runaway.
I swallow. “I won’t be there.”
His brow creases. “What do you mean? You’re always there.”
I don’t answer right away. Mostly because I’m weighing how much I want to let him see.
Finally, I turn fully to him. “I won’t be there this time.”
His gaze narrows slightly. “Why? Got a date?”
The words are a joke, tossed out carelessly but they land like a blade. I flinch. And it’s enough.
“I suppose that would be funny to you,” I say, voice low, “after finding my list.”
His expression shifts. Guilty. Cornered. “Come on, kiddo, I didn’t mean it like that.”
But I’m already backing away.
“You did. And it’s okay. I get it.” My smile is tired, a thin, bitter thing. “I’ll always just be Sam’s little sister to you.”
“Phern—” His voice cracks a little, and I can feel him reaching, like maybe this time he’ll try.
But it’s too late.
“I won’t be at the market because I’ll be in Vegas.”
That stuns him. He goes still, the words hanging between us like smoke. I see it then. The shift. The realization of what I mean.
“Phern,” he says, strained.
“Don’t worry, Will.” I smile, sweet as sin. “I’ll be sure to use protection.”
His jaw clenches and I don’t wait for a response.
I turn. And I walk away. Because this time, I don’t owe him a damn thing.
The second I get away from Will, I head for the exit. I don’t stop to say goodbye. Don’t glance back. Don’t give anyone the chance to catch my expression and ask what’s wrong.
I just walk.
I go right out the side door of Flowers End, into the night air that’s warm and thick with the scent of honeysuckle and spilled whiskey. My boots click across the gravel as I cut through the back lot and make it across the street, toward the dark line of trees that leads to Knot and Spur.
The bouquet’s still clutched in my hand. I don’t even realize I’m squeezing it tight enough to snap the stems.
I make it as far as the sidewalk when I hear footsteps.
Fast. Angry.
“Phern!”
I keep walking.
“Don’t,” I snap over my shoulder. “Just let me go.”
“Not happening.”
The next second hits me in a blur. I turn to tell him off, to unleash all the fury bubbling in my throat and instead, I get hauled. Will throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. Like I didn’t just shatter him five minutes ago.
“What the hell?!” I yell, pounding on his back. “Put me down!”
“Gladly. Once you stop acting like Vegas is some kind of answer.”
He strides toward my apartment, going up the stairs, still carrying me.
“Will, I swear to God—”
“No, you don’t get to swear at me. Not after everything. Not after that.”
He whips out a key from his pocket that unlocks my door.
“How do you have a key for my apartment?”
“Sam gave it to me,” he says, strolling in.
He sets me down hard on my feet, but doesn’t let go, kicking the door closed with his boot. His hands stay on my arms, eyes boring into mine.
“You think running off to Vegas is going to fix the hole in your chest?” he growls. “That some drink and a cheap hotel kiss is gonna make you forget what we were?”
“What we were?” I laugh, bitter and broken. “Will, we were nothing. You made sure of that.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
He flinches, and his grip tightens slightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Yeah? Well you did.”
We stand there, chest to chest, breathing hard like we just came off a bender. My dress is wrinkled. My hair’s falling out of its pin. His shirt’s half untucked and there’s fury in his eyes but it’s not just anger. It’s something that looks dangerously close to need.
“So you think going to Vegas and fucking him will make you feel better?”
“I sure do.”
His laugh is low and rough, like gravel in the back of his throat. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here, sugar. ’Cause I’m more than happy to help you work through that list of yours.”
My pulse trips and my jaw tightens.
“You think this is a joke?” I snap, voice shaking. “You think checking boxes with me will somehow undo the way you left me alone in the dark?”
His grip on my arms doesn’t loosen, but something shifts in his eyes like I hit the nerve he keeps buried under bravado and bullshit.
“You think I haven’t been in the dark right there with you?” he growls. “I watched you unravel and pretend you were fine. I saw you smiling through the wreckage and not once did you let me back in.”
“Because you were never in to begin with,” I spit. “You made me feel like I imagined it all. Like we were a daydream I should’ve woken up from sooner.”
His hands slide up to cup my face. It’s not soft, not rough, just desperate. “Phern, I never stopped wanting you.”
“Then why didn’t you choose me?” I whisper. “Why was it always almost?”
Silence. Sharp and suffocating.
Then, so softly it nearly breaks me, he says, “Because if I chose you, I knew I’d never survive losing you.”
My breath catches.
His thumb brushes under my eye, over a tear I didn’t feel fall.
“And now?” I ask, voice barely there.
His gaze drops to my mouth, his chest rising hard and slow. “Now I’d rather lose everything than let you walk away thinking you’re forgettable.”
He leans in, mouth a breath from mine.
“You’re not a box on a list, Phern. You’re the whole goddamn thing.”
For a long, aching second, neither of us moves.
Then his mouth is on mine. He kisses me like he’s starving and gentle at the same time like he doesn’t know whether to worship me or fall apart in my hands.
My fingers slide into his hair, pulling him closer, chasing the only thing that’s felt real in weeks.
I don’t realize I’m crying until his thumbs brush the tears from my cheeks, his mouth still moving over mine like he’s memorizing it.
He pulls back slightly, breath ragged. “If we do this… I need to know it’s what you want.”
“I’ve only ever wanted you,” I whisper.
That does something to him.
His whole body shifts, tightens, softens. “You tell me when to stop,” he says, voice hoarse. “I mean it. Anytime.”
I nod, eyes burning. “Okay.”
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carries me to the bedroom like I’m breakable, like this is a moment he doesn’t want to rush or ruin.
When he sets me down, my fingers reach for the zipper of my dress, but his hand covers mine—warm, steady, sure.
“I got it,” he says, voice low.
He unzips me slowly, like every inch of revealed skin is something to be savored.
The fabric slips down my body and pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties, heart pounding against bare ribs.
I’ve never felt so exposed. Not just naked, but stripped open in every way that matters.
And he looks at me like I’m a miracle.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
I try to laugh, shaky and unsure. “You’re just saying that.”
He cups my face, grounding me with the quiet intensity in his eyes. “No. I’ve thought it for years. I should’ve said it every damn day.”
My breath catches. I nod toward the bed, the air between us charged, trembling. “Then come say it again.”
We fall into the sheets like we’re falling into each other—no walls, no pretending.
Just skin and need and the kind of tension that’s been building for far too long.
His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast, worshiping each inch with aching slowness.
His hands explore me like he’s memorizing a sacred text.
I swallow hard, voice barely a whisper. “You’re going to have to tell me what to do. I’ve never…”
His gaze snaps to mine, and something in his expression softens, deepens. “I know, sugar.” He leans in, brushing his lips over mine. “I’ve got you.”
And then he kisses me. It’s slow, tender, and so full of feeling it splinters something deep inside me.
Everything that follows is deliberate. His hands. His voice. His body. He moves with patience and purpose, guiding me through every moment, every new sensation.
The stretch burns, but so does the wanting. And beneath it all is the weight of something bigger. Connection, devotion, the quiet awe of finally being seen and chosen.
I cling to him, breath hitching, body trembling, as he fills me in a way that goes far beyond physical. Every movement pulls me closer to something I didn’t know I needed until him.
He doesn’t stop touching me. Doesn’t stop murmuring my name like a promise. And when the tears come, unbidden and fierce, he kisses each one like it matters. Like they all do.
It’s not flawless. It’s not some perfect movie scene.
But it’s ours.
And when it’s over, he stays wrapped around me, arms tight, forehead pressed to mine, like he’s never letting go.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod.
“I don’t regret it,” I whisper back.
But what I don’t say is that I’ll only survive this if it means something.
Because if it doesn’t?
It’ll break me.
All over again.