Chapter 6
six
. . .
Violet
Whitley’s giving me hell. I can always count on her for that.
“So, you didn’t break up with him?”
I hesitate half a beat too long, teeth sinking into the peach ring’s soft and sugary goodness.
Whitley’s mouth pulls into a flat line. “Judging by that horrific snack choice…” She glances back at the microwave clock. “At 8:03 in the morning, that would be a no.”
“It was a nice restaurant,” I say weakly. “There was candlelight.”
She just stares at me.
I chew. Swallow. Reach back into the bag. “I panicked.”
“There it is.” She points at me. “You’re not afraid of hurting him. You’re afraid of being the bad guy.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Because…yeah. That.
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not.” Whitley crosses her arms. “Either you want to be with him, or you don’t.”
I sigh, turning away to fiddle with the coffee maker. I’m already exhausted from the mental gymnastics of the past twenty-four hours.
“I just need to find the right words.”
Whitley snorts. “There are no right words for ‘I’ve been pretending to be into you for eight months.’ Just rip the Band-Aid off.”
“Harsh, Whit.”
“But true,” she counters, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “And you know what’s harsher? Stringing him along while you’re mooning over your high school crush who suddenly reappeared looking like a cover model for a romance book.”
Heat rushes to my face. “I am not mooning.”
Whitley arches a brow. I chew the inside of my cheek. The longer I wait, the worse this is going to get. The guilt is already a knot in my stomach that won’t untie itself.
I take a deep breath. “Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll call him to see if I can stop by after work today.”
I reach for my phone on the counter, tapping Travis’s contact before I can chicken out again. My pulse hammers in my ears as I listen to it ring once, twice...
A woman’s voice answers, light and breathless. “Hello?” She giggles. “Travis’s phone.”
My stomach drops. I freeze, phone pressed against my ear. Whitley’s eyes widen across from me. She must see something in my expression because she’s suddenly at my side, mouthing what?
I hit the speaker button with a shaking finger and hold the phone between us.
“Babe, who is it?” Travis asks in the background, his voice muffled but unmistakable.
The woman giggles again. “It says Violet? I don’t know, they’re not saying anything.”
Sheets rustle in the background, a curse sounds, and then Travis is on the line. “Violet,” he says. “Hey. I was just about to call you.”
My chest is hollow, like someone’s punched a hole straight through my ribs.
“Violet?” Travis prompts, sounding more alert now. “You there?”
I look up at Whitley, who’s already mouthing hang up with a fierce expression, her eyes blazing with protective fury.
“I—” My voice cracks. “Who answered your phone?”
There’s a pause. A long one. I can practically hear him scrambling for an explanation.
“That’s…my cousin,” he finally says. “She’s visiting from out of town.”
The lie is so obvious, so ridiculous that I almost laugh. Almost.
“Your cousin,” I repeat flatly.
Whitley’s face contorts into silent outrage. She mouths something that looks suspiciously like I’ll kill him.
The woman’s voice giggles in the background again. “I better not be your cousin after I just had your co—”
Fabric rustles on the other end of the line before a door slams. “Vi, I can explain.”
“You’re with someone else right now.” It’s not a question. I don’t need it to be. “You…had another woman over after dinner last night?”
“It’s not what you think.”
Whitley grabs her coffee mug, then her keys, and finally a steak knife from the drawer. I blink at her.
“You better put your dick away before I get there, Travis,” she calls out. “Or I’m taking it as a fucking souvenir!”
I burst out laughing, a sound so unexpected it startles even me. It bubbles up from somewhere deep inside, somewhere that’s been locked away for months. The laughter is cleansing, like rain after a drought.
“Whitley, put that down,” I manage between gasps of laughter.
She glares at me, still clutching the steak knife like she’s genuinely considering following through on her threat.
Travis makes a choked sound on the other end of the line. “Violet—”
“Actually, Travis,” I say, my voice steadying, “you just made my life so much easier. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you it’s over, and here you’ve gone and done the hard part for me.”
There’s delayed silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment, I think Travis might have hung up. Then his voice returns, colder than I’ve ever heard it.
“Is that how we’re playing this? I wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere if you’d just put out like a normal girlfriend.”
The words hit me like ice water. My laughter dies in my throat.
“You’re hardly the victim here,” he continues. “You’re the one who made excuses every time things got heated. What was I supposed to do?”
Whitley lunges for the phone, but I step back, holding it away from her. As much as I want to hang up, I need to hear this.
“So…you cheated because I wouldn’t sleep with you. Instead of just talking to me about it?”
“What did you expect, Violet? Men have needs. And you—you’re like this perfect little ice queen. Looking so sweet and untouchable. It’s exhausting pretending you’re enough when you won’t even—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I snap, finding my voice. I should be livid, and I suppose I am, but the relief coursing through me overtakes everything else. All the guilt, all the anxiety about hurting him—gone in a blissful instant.
It appears I’ve dodged a serious bullet.
Whitley sets the knife down with a dramatic sigh. She tilts her head and glances at my phone, then back to my face. One eyebrow lifts in a silent, permission?
I don’t answer. I just slide the phone across the counter and reach for another glorious peach ring.
“Bye, cousin fucker!” Whitley chirps, leaning in to jab the End Call button with far more enthusiasm than necessary.
The line goes dead.
“Did that really just happen?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Did I just get cheated on while I was planning to break up with him?”
“The universe works in mysterious ways,” Whitley says, raising her coffee mug. “Mostly terrible, but occasionally helpful ones.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest again, this one less manic. I slump against the counter, relief washing over me in waves so strong I can almost taste it.
“I should be upset,” I say, searching for the hurt and betrayal but coming up empty handed. Instead, there’s just…lightness. “Why am I not sad?”
Whitley snorts. “Because you’ve been looking for an exit sign for months.”
I consider that for a second. “I guess so.”
Her smirk fades. “How do you feel, though? You okay?”
I frown, tilting my head. “I…don’t know. I’m not upset, but I might be a little hurt, I guess? Does that even make sense?”
Whitley nods, tilting her head like she’s reading me like a canvas. “You can be relieved and a little broken at the same time. You don’t have to choose.”
I let out a slow breath, letting the tension in my shoulders loosen. “I swear, Whitley, I love it when you go all therapist on me.”
I really do love it. Whitney might be blunt—sometimes brutally so—but beneath that edge is brilliance.
She just finished her master’s in counseling and art therapy, and it’s evident in the way she listens, the way she knows exactly which questions to ask to make you confront the truth without realizing she’s guiding you there.
She’s the kind of person who could talk you through a train wreck with a cup of coffee in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, and somehow you’d leave feeling better.
The clinic is a constant whirlwind of patients and paperwork today, and I’m finally getting my first breath of silence in the break room.
My mental reprieve is stolen the second I see the message on my phone.
Unknown Number:
Hey, Larkin.
The text came in a couple hours ago, and I’m just now seeing it.
I know he has no idea that even a message like that makes me physically hurt, but I choke on my own breath at the sight of those two words.
How many times did I convince myself I didn’t need him? That I was better off without him? How stupid is it that I can still remember the sound of his laugh? The tilt of his grin. The exact shade of his eyes in the dark.
This. This is the feeling I expected this morning after I got off the phone with Travis.
I’ve just been lying to myself over and over again. I never wanted to admit how much it hurt when Rowan left. I didn’t want to acknowledge the ache I felt every time I saw a glimpse of him in my dreams, or the way his memory would sneak up on me when I least expected it.
I close my eyes, bracing myself. It’s been years. I’ve changed. I’m not that girl who thought she could never be whole without him.
And yet, my hands tremble as I type out the words. My heart is racing, and this might be a mistake, but these words have been stuck in my throat for far too long.
Me:
What the hell, Rowan?
The message is out before I can second-guess it. No taking it back now.
Should I save his number? It really shouldn’t be this big of a decision. Still, my fingers move on their own, typing his name with a shaky breath. I hit save before I can talk myself out of it.
His response comes five seconds after.
Rowan:
I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can we talk? In person?
I stare at the screen until the words start to bleed together.
My vision blurs, but not from the text—from the pressure building behind my eyes.
I can hear his voice in my head, soft and low, like he’s standing right beside me.
Apologetic. Familiar. Dangerous. I don’t know if it’s the Rowan from years ago or the stranger who’s found his way back into my life without permission.
Can we talk?
It’s a simple question, but it’s as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump or turn around. It’s not just about him. It’s about me—who I was, who I’ve clawed my way into becoming, and who I might turn into if I let him back in.
Part of me wants to scream. To rip open the wounds he left and make him look. Every late night I spent trying to forget his name. Every lie I told myself just to get out of bed. I want to hit him with words I’ve never had the courage to say aloud.
And then there’s the other part of me that’s been in love with him for so long that it doesn’t matter how much time has passed, how long I’ve tried to pretend I’ve let go.
That girl—the one who dreams of what could’ve been, what we never had, the one who remembers the way his crooked grin used to make everything right.
I could end it. Block the number. Delete the message. Pretend he never tried. I’ve walked away from this exact fantasy before and told myself I was done. That I was better now. Stronger.
But when it comes to Rowan…I’m afraid that will never be true.
The truth is, I’m stitched together with pieces of him. Just the thought of hearing his voice again, of being within inches of it…breaks something I thought I buried deep inside me.
I know how this story ends. It ends with me shattered, picking up the same old pieces. Yet I also know I won’t survive not knowing. I’ll regret it. I’ll wonder. And that wondering will eat me alive. Deep down, I still believe in the version of him that never showed up for me.
My hands are shaking as I set the phone down and lean back against the counter. My chest tightens, like my ribs can’t hold the weight of this decision. I’m stronger than this. I’ve said it. I’ve believed it.
But I’m still hopelessly in love with the boy who broke me. With the man who could do it all over again.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I’m doing it anyway.
Me:
Okay.
I want to see him. I want to know why he came back. I want to hear him explain the years of silence and distance. Most of all, I want to believe in him again.
Rowan:
Same place as before? Tonight?
I blink at the screen, trying to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. He’s talking about the diner. I haven’t been there since the last time we went together.
It’s been years, but I can still picture it.
The faded red booths, the smell of grease and coffee that always hung in the air.
We used to talk for hours there, when my parents were fighting or when his dad was drunk.
I’d laugh at his stupid jokes, and he’d tell me about his plans and big dreams. Then every time he’d leave, that same bittersweet knot in my stomach would return, knowing he wasn’t mine to keep.
But I’d wait for him, because that’s just how I was.
How I am.
Me:
Okay. Same place.