Chapter 10-Esme
A few minutes earlier…
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I just stand there.
For a second, I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
Don’t think.
Because if I do?
Everything’s going to come crashing in all at once.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
The mirror fogs slowly from the heat of the shower, blurring my reflection until I’m nothing but a vague outline staring back at myself.
“Get it together, Esme,” I whisper.
But my voice sounds thin.
Unconvincing.
Because the truth?
I am not together right now.
Not even close.
I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, dropping it to the tile, followed by everything else.
The quiet of the room presses in around me, broken only by the steady drip of the faucet and the hum of the cheap exhaust fan overhead.
And him.
God.
Benji’s right out there.
Ten feet away.
Maybe less.
After three years of nothing.
Of silence.
Of pretending I don’t still feel everything I feel.
And here I am.
I’m sharing a motel room with Benjamin Gunner like no time has passed at all.
I turn on the shower, stepping under the spray before it’s even fully warmed.
The water hits my skin, and I suck in a breath, bracing my hands against the wall as everything I’ve been holding back finally catches up to me.
I should be furious.
That thought comes fast. Sharp.
Immediate.
I should be so damn mad at him.
For what he said.
For what he believed.
For how easily he let me go.
My throat tightens.
“You believed him instead of me,” I murmur, closing my eyes.
Paul. That slimy, lying—I exhale hard, pressing my forehead against the tile.
But then—the anger lessens.
It softens.
But it’s still there. Not gone.
Never gone.
Because how could he?
But I feel it shift.
Because after all this time I think I get it.
And that might be the worst part.
Because Paul didn’t just lie to me.
He lied to Benji.
To his best friend.
To a man who trusted him with everything—including me.
And Benji?
He loved him.
Not like he loved me.
But in that brotherhood way.
That soldier way.
That I’d die for you kind of way.
I swallow hard.
“So yeah,” I whisper. “Of course you believed him.”
Because what was the alternative?
That his best friend was a manipulative piece of shit who faked evidence?
That everything he thought he knew about one of the closest people in his life was a lie?
That’s a hard pill to swallow.
Maybe too hard.
My chest aches.
“But did you love him more than me?” I ask the empty room, my voice breaking just a little.
Because that’s the part I can’t let go of.
That’s the part that still hurts.
Still burns.
If he loved me?
If he really loved me?
Shouldn’t he have fought for us?
Shouldn’t he have questioned it?
Shouldn’t he have come home and looked me in the eye and asked?
I grip the edge of the sink, my fingers tightening.
“Shit. Did I not fight for us?” I wonder, the question turning inward now.
Because that’s not fair either.
Not completely.
I mean, I just left.
I shake my head, water dripping down my face, mixing with the heat of the shower.
I left like I was guilty.
God.
That truth stings.
I didn’t stay.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t force the conversation.
I packed up what little I had left and ran.
Ran from the pain.
Ran from the humiliation.
Ran from the man I loved because I couldn’t stand the look in his eyes anymore.
The doubt.
The betrayal.
The way he looked at me like I was someone he didn’t recognize.
“I should’ve stayed,” I murmur.
Maybe.
Or maybe I was too broken to.
Too hurt.
Too damn tired of trying to prove something that should’ve never been questioned in the first place.
The water runs hotter, steam filling the room, wrapping around me like a cocoon.
But it doesn’t soothe the ache in my chest.
Nothing does.
Not really.
Because the truth is?
I never stopped loving him.
Not for a second.
Not through the nights in my van.
Not through the miles of empty road.
Not through the hard times.
He was always there.
In the back of my mind.
In the quiet moments.
In the what ifs.
I let out a shaky breath.
“Shit.”
And now I’m here.
Back with him.
Standing on the edge of something that feels just as dangerous as it did the first time.
Only this time?
There’s history.
There’s hurt.
There’s questions that need answers.
“I need to talk to him,” I say out loud, firmer now.
Because this—this tension. This pull.
This thing between us—it’s not going away.
Not even if we ignore it.
Not even if we pretend it’s just physical.
Because it’s not.
It never was.
I reach for the soap, going through the motions, trying to ground myself in something simple, something real.
But my mind keeps drifting.
Back to him.
The way he looked at me earlier.
The way his voice softened when he said he was proud of me.
God, that did something to me.
Something dangerous.
Because for a second?
It felt like we were us again.
Like nothing had broken.
Like nothing had changed.
I rinse off quickly, my pulse picking up again as I think about stepping back out into that room.
Back into his space.
Back into him.
“Just talk,” I whisper to myself. “That’s it. Just talk.”
But even as I say it—I know.
Deep down, I know that’s not what’s going to happen.
Because I remember that look in his eyes.
And I know the one in mine.
And when two people like us—with this much history, this much want, this much unfinished between us—get put in a room together like this?
Yeah.
Talking is never going to be enough.
I turn off the water, grabbing a towel and drying off slowly, my thoughts still racing.
Then I reach for the long T-shirt I packed, pulling it over my head.
It’s soft.
Loose.
Barely covers anything.
A pair of clean panties are next.
I stare at myself in the mirror for a second.
Hair damp.
Skin flushed.
Eyes a little too bright.
“You’re in trouble,” I murmur.
But I don’t change.
Don’t add anything.
Don’t armor up.
Because part of me—
A reckless, stubborn, hopeful part—
Wants to see what happens.
Wants to know if he still looks at me the same way.
Wants to know if this thing between us is real…
Or if it’s just memory.
I take a deep breath.
Reach for the door.
And open it.
Stepping back into the room—
And straight into whatever comes next.
Our eyes meet. Tension spikes. And Benji moves.
“Fuck it.”
And that right there is the first shot fired.