Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
CONNOR
I stand there for a full minute after Whitney walks away, like if I stay still enough I might be able to rewind everything and give me a different ending. One where I chose better. One where I told her the truth before I lost her trust…again.
No such luck.
Vivi appears by my side, glancing in the direction Whitney went.
“Rising Tides is supposed to be a PR booster for you, but this isn’t giving me boosting vibes, Connor.”
“I know, but I’ll do my best to fix it.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll work on it.”
“You’ve got two days.” She turns back toward her office.
“Oh, and I have a cat.”
“A cat?” She scrunches her nose. “I don’t like cats.”
“She’s not really my cat, she’s temporary.”
“Sure. Temporary. Like your impulse control?”
“I need someone to watch her while I’m on the tour.” The implied ask sits between us awkwardly.
“You’re on my shit list, Fisk.” She moves to shut her door but turns back. “Drop her off Sunday before you leave.”
“Thank you.”
By the time I’m back at my rental, the place feels too quiet.
I open my duffel and start packing like muscle memory might save me—shirts folded too neatly, swim gear rolled tight, toiletries dumped in without order. It’s the kind of packing you do when you don’t want to think.
I think anyway.
Her face. Her voice. The way she said it like a verdict.
You don’t get credit for telling the truth after you already lied to me.
My phone buzzes on the bed.
Leo
Vivi is not pleased.
I huff a laugh with no humor and call him instead.
“Vivi is never pleased with me,” I say, dropping onto the mattress.
He exhales like he already knows.
“I fucked up.”
“That’s not new information, Connor.”
I stare at the ceiling fan spinning above me. “Whitney Shields.”
“Rory’s sister?” He pauses. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
He swears quietly. Professionally. Like a man who has done this before and hoped never to again. “How bad?”
I explain the situation. From our anonymous gaming to the coffee shop ghosting and how I’d meant to tell her, but she found out from my gaming console first.
“She won’t look at me. We’re going on the Rising Tides ambassador tour. And I deserve every second of how awful that’s going to be.”
“Jesus.” He rubs a hand over his face—I can hear it. “You do understand this is the exact opposite of ‘keep your head down,’ right?”
“I do now.”
“Rory Shields already thinks you’re radioactive,” he continues. “Media’s sniffing around your exit from the last setup, and now you’ve tangled yourself into the one relationship that guarantees fallout.”
“I didn’t plan it,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he replies. “You never do. That’s the problem.”
I sit up, elbows on my knees, phone pressed to my ear. “I don’t want to walk away from this.”
“From her,” he says. Not a question.
“From any of it,” I admit. “The team. The tour. The mess. I’m tired of running.”
He goes quiet again. When he speaks, his voice is steadier. Less agent. More human.
“Then you don’t fix this with spin. You fix it with behavior. You show up. You swim. You keep your mouth shut unless you’re telling the truth.”
“And with Whitney?”
A beat.
“You give her space,” he says. “And you prove—over time—that this wasn’t just another Connor Fisk disaster tour.”
I swallow hard. “And if she never forgives me?”
“Then you live with that,” he says gently. “But at least this time, you won’t be able to say you ran.”
The call ends.
I stare at my packed bag, at the life zipped up inside it, at how easy it would be to leave again.
Instead, I sit there and let it hurt.
Because for the first time, not running feels like the point.