Chapter 3
I woke on the cold tile, my cheek pressed to the floor of my bathroom like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
My mouth was dry, my skin felt clammy, and my eyes were heavy from crying myself into unconsciousness.
I didn’t remember when I fell asleep. Only that the moment the door closed behind him, everything inside me caved in.
I needed space.
I needed air.
I couldn’t do this anymore.
My phone was buzzing somewhere beyond the door, again. The sound had been invading my subconscious as I still drifted between sleep and awake. The vibration felt aggressive, desperate, like it was trying to crawl through the walls and reach me.
I pushed myself up slowly, one hand braced against the vanity as I rose, limbs trembling like I’d run a marathon in my sleep. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and winced.
Mascara smudged. Eyes puffy. My lip was marked red from where I’d bitten it to keep the sobs in.
The white silk slip I was still wearing hung from one shoulder, stained with tears, wrinkled and twisted around me like some discarded costume.
I let it fall to the floor and stepped into the shower.
The heat hit my skin like a purge. Steam rose around me, fogging the mirror behind the glass. I stood there, still, arms braced against the tile, and let the water do what I couldn’t.
Wash him off.
But my mind wouldn’t let him go.
He hadn’t said a word when he walked in last night.
Not hello, or I missed you. Not I love you, or How was your day. He just slammed the door, set down his keys, and had his hands on me before I could get a word out.
It was like he was starving.
There was nothing gentle about it. No slow kiss, no checking in.
Just heat. Hunger. Hands everywhere. Clothes half-ripped, breath caught in throats.
He took me right there in the hallway.
No words. Just grunts and growls and the way he liked it. The way I liked it, too, if I was being honest.
Rough. Bare. Deep.
He called me names I used to blush at. Called me his. Said I was made for him.
I used to think our passion meant something.
That it proved how intense our love was. How deep our connection ran.
That no one else could ever feel like this.
But maybe that was all we ever were.
Maybe that was all I ever was to him.
I had made him wear condoms at first. Told him I wasn’t comfortable going without.
But he wore me down with soft words. Loving ones. Then the dirty ones about how good it felt to be inside me bare. Saying the idea of having any kind of barrier between us was unbearable.
He would whisper about how I was the only one. And then, when I knew... when I found out... he promised me that he hadn’t touched his wife in months, before he even met me.
That I could trust him.
And I did.
God, I did.
And now I hated myself for it.
I scrubbed my skin like I could erase what we were.
Scrubbed with the blistering heat of the water until the water ran cold and my fingers wrinkled.
When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in the fluffiest robe I owned. The pale blue one with the sleeves that were too long and the sash that tied twice around my waist, twice.
Still dripping, I left the bathroom, silenced my phone buzzing on the nightstand and put it in my pocket, and walked straight to the kitchen.
Coffee. I needed coffee.
And food. My stomach growled, a sharp reminder of everything I didn’t get last night.
I’d planned the whole night to celebrate us, a beautiful dinner. Took effort to set the table. I had wine chilling and candles waiting to be lit.
It was supposed to be loving and romantic.
It was supposed to be a celebration of our anniversary.
One year.
But he didn’t even look at the table.
I don't know if he even really looked at me.
He just took what he wanted.
I popped bread into the toaster and pulled a mug from the shelf, letting the scent of coffee ground me. Let the normalcy of the routine push back the chaos.
I took it out to the balcony with my toast smothered in maple butter and the blanket I kept in a basket by the sliding doors. The wind was sharp, cutting through the quiet. The air smelled like turning leaves and distant woodsmoke.
Fall always brought me back to myself.
The cold. The clarity. The way everything started to die, yet still looked beautiful in the process.
I wrapped the blanket around my legs and took a sip of coffee, breathing in the steam.
And then a memory cut through...
Me, curled up beside him one night, telling him my hopes of building my dream home and a tiny library outback on my property where I would raise my family someday.
A “she shed” with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, cozy armchairs, and an office tucked into the back where I could finally write for myself and see my name on the spine.
He’d said we could have that someday.
Then he’d laughed. “What would you need an office for?”
He didn’t know.
Because I’d never told him.
Not about the bestsellers I’d ghostwritten.
Not about the top-ten lists I’d quietly dominated under someone else’s name.
Not about the retainers that publishers had with me... the advances or the foreign translations or the secret thrill of watching my words climb charts I wasn’t credited on.
Or the fact that was why I wanted to work at a bookstore, so I could see readers, fans get excited about my work... even though they had no idea it was mine.
He didn’t know because I hadn’t told him.
And I was wondering now if I didn't... if some part of me knew he wasn’t worthy of all of me.
He called my job at the bookstore “cute.”
Said I was the perfect wet dream. The hot librarian.
And I let him think that was all I was.
I finally worked up the nerve to check my phone.
It was lit up with notifications.
Texts. Missed calls. Voicemails.
Andrew.
The first few, he was devastated.
I love you.
Cassidy, please talk to me.
What did you mean? We will never be over.
Then the shift.
You’re being unfair.
You know how hard this is for me.
You always do this. You expect too much.
This is on you.
I locked the screen and tossed the phone on the table.
I couldn’t respond.
Not right now.
Maybe not ever.
I needed space. I needed to breathe. I needed to remember who I was and how I got to a place where I was begging someone to stay.
And maybe… maybe I needed my family.
I was off for the weekend. No ghostwriting deadlines. No bookstore shifts. Nothing ties me here but the ache in my chest and the smell of him still clinging to my bed.
Like she had a sixth sense for my unravelling, my sister Clara called, and I had to choke back the tears that threatened to fall when I heard her voice.
“Hey,” she said, already halfway smiling through the phone. “Don’t say no. Just listen. Jackson has a hockey game this afternoon. The ex isn’t going. Mom and Dad are home prepping for a BBQ later, and, get this... Brody Palmer is back.”
I blinked. “Back?”
Brody was my Brother's best friend from high school. They had gone to different schools after graduation, and Brody had gotten engaged to his college girlfriend and moved to BC with her for a job she was chasing. I hadn't heard much about them since.
“Back for good. Moved home after the breakup. Both families are getting together later to welcome him home and celebrate Chase finishing his residency and officially working with dad. Come to the game. Bring a bag. Stay for the weekend.”
I looked down at my robe, at where I knew the bruises on my hips from Andrew’s grip would be, and felt the ache start to crack into something else.
Resolve.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll come.”
"Really," she squealed.
And I felt like an ass. Another thing that highlighted how far away from myself I had drifted. When was the last time I went home? When I wasn't waiting for him to be available? On call for the man I thought loved me.
I didn’t bother with makeup.
Pulled on black leggings, a cropped hoodie, and left my hair in loose, natural waves.
As I tossed a weekend bag into the trunk of my car, I realized what I needed.
I needed to see my nephew.
I needed a hug from my sister.
Needed my mom's cooking and my dad's strength.
I needed to be treated like Chase's baby sister again.
I needed to feel like I was enough... me, tucked into the fold of people who knew who I was before I got lost.
And maybe, if I let myself, I could start to figure out who I wanted to be.
Because this version of me?
The one who begged a married man to stay?
She didn’t feel like mine anymore.