Chapter 26
JULES
Iset the bouquet on my dresser, petals bruised from being held too long.
For the first time all night, I stop moving. I breathe.
I already said goodnight to Maddie and Cara.
A thin slice of hallway light cuts the room in two, then slips away.
Wedding music drifts through the walls as I sit on the edge of the bed, still in my dress.
For the first time in years, I’m single.
The thought lands strangely. Too big to fully feel yet.
I keep waiting for my phone to light up with Evan’s name, the familiar comfort of knowing someone out there belongs to me and I belong to them.
But the room stays quiet.
And suddenly I understand how much of my life learned to move around us.
When you’re with someone, they become the thread that runs through everything. And when they’re gone, the rhythm you built… just goes silent.
Tell me what I was supposed to do.
Guilt twists through me sharp enough to make my stomach ache.
God, Evan.
I hurt him.
The truth of that settles heavy in my chest.
And yet, underneath the grief, something else flickers too
Not happiness. Not freedom exactly. Just… space. Like stepping back is finally moving forward.
Relief and loss tangled in the same breath.
Because I did love Evan.
He was a good man. We were good people together.
I see his face, that final glance before he turned away into the dark.
Two years, and it’s finally over.
The room tilts as I finish the last of my punch and set the glass beside the bouquet.
I reach for the towel because I know what’s coming.
Tears swell before I’m ready for them. The first sob catches me off guard. Then another. Then all of it at once.
I slide off the bed and curl onto the carpet, cheek pressed against the rough weave while the bass from downstairs hums through the floorboards.
Somewhere outside, people are still laughing.
Somewhere out there, Evan is driving away from me. My chest hurts for him, for what we were, and for what we’ll never be. The thought cracks something open completely.
Hiccups come sharp and raw until my ribs ache. I bury my face in the towel and let the grief have me.
Time slips sideways. The crying comes in waves, heavy and ugly and impossible to stop.
I don’t know how long I stay there.
Long enough for my makeup to disappear.
Long enough for my throat to burn raw.
Long enough to feel emptied out down to the bone.
Somewhere in the blur, I think about all the signs I kept trying not to name.
The carpet feels rough against my skin, anchoring me to what’s real.
When the tears finally start thinning out, I sit up and wipe my face with the clean side of the towel.
I take two slow breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
Relief hits, sharp and guilty and wild.
My lungs expand.
Thank God.
I lean against the bed, legs stretched across the floor, and let the room breathe.
I press the towel against my eyes again and let out a shaky laugh that barely sounds like me.
What a mess.
I’m going to be okay… because I have me.
The window is open, cool air on my cheeks.
The bouquet sits crooked on the dresser, petals bent from how tightly I held it earlier.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Catch the flowers. Lose the boyfriend.
A tiny hysterical laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
This is my life.
Messy. Painful. Real.
But the world keeps spinning and little by little, the room starts feeling solid again.
First stop: the bathroom.
Next stop, my bed.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, back against the headboard, the lamp’s soft glow spilling across the quilt.
Moonlight slips through the curtains in a thin, silver thread.
The house feels strangely full and distant at the same time, music and laughter still drifting up from downstairs like a world I already stepped out of.
My eyes open wider as another sound catches. A drawer sliding open. The faint rustle of fabric. A dull thud of shoes against the floorboards.
Through the thin wall, I can almost picture Calvin moving through his room, loosening his collar, unwinding after the long blur of the wedding.
Silence stretches. My ears stay tuned to every small shift, waiting for what comes next. I think maybe he’s settled.
Then a door opens and closes. Footsteps pause outside my room.
A knock, gentle and almost hesitant, at my door.
My heart jumps. Exhaustion softens the edges. He must know something by now. I wonder how much.
I swipe at my eyes, stare at the door like I might have imagined it. But I know better. And honestly, I don’t think I can handle one more thing tonight pretending to be nothing.
And I’d be lying if I said the silence didn’t ache tonight.
Part of me wants to be left alone tonight. Another part doesn’t want to feel alone at all. And somehow, Calvin showing up feels like both.
I shouldn’t open it.
Somehow my hand is already on the knob anyway.
He’s standing there in a plain white T-shirt and gray sweats, barefoot.
His eyes meet mine, soft and unguarded.
We stand there. The clock ticks in the hallway. Quiet laughter drifts up faintly, but up here everything slows.
“You want company?”
A thin ache moves through me. “Okay.”
He steps inside, eyes flicking toward the chair piled with clothes from the weekend.
“Sorry,” I say, half under my breath. “Wasn’t planning for company.”
I move toward the far side of the bed, tucking one leg beneath me before I look back at him. He’s watching me, easy.
He glances at the quilt, then meets my eyes. “Mind if I join you?”
His voice is quiet, not a challenge, just permission waiting to be given.
I nod once, sliding back toward the headboard. “Yeah.”
I tuck my knees up as he sits beside me, careful and measured, leaving a hand-span of space between us.
Close enough that I feel his warmth and catch the faint tang of Riot’s punch still on his breath.
We don’t touch. Not yet.
Just breathing the same air.
I’m not ashamed for him to see me undone. My shoulders ease against the headboard.
The silence holds. No clever words. Just presence. And little by little, my breathing starts to steady.
The curtain lifts and falls in the night air, carrying faint laughter and music through the open window.
We sit together, hips a breath apart on the quilt, the tent lights pulsing faintly against the glass.
It feels almost like childhood, bare feet, no armor, the kind of silence that welcomes confession.
My voice breaks the silence first. “I haven’t felt this calm inside in a long time. It still hurts, but in a way that feels lighter. Like I’d been carrying a weight for so long, I forgot it was there.”
Calvin’s throat works around a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I’ve been there. Sometimes losing something hurts and relieves you at the same time.”
His eyes lift back to mine. “That messes with your head a little.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”
The quiet between us feels heavier than it should, but not uncomfortable. I can hear his slow breath, rythmic and human, and it anchors something in me too.
I don’t move. Not yet. I’m too aware of the space between us, of how easily one small gesture could change everything.
Neither of us tries to fill the silence.
For a second I see us at sixteen again, sprawled on the back steps, daring the world to notice us.
The memory stings, but there’s gratitude in it too.
I shift my foot beneath the quilt, the brush of fabric breaking the stillness.
I speak quieter, as if not to scare the hope away. “I don’t have everything figured out,” I admit. “But I’m tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m not.”
“You have no idea how much I get that…” he says softly. “You’re not supposed to have it all figured out anyway. You just notice when it matters… and keep showing up.”
A long, easy hush settles.
His hand lands palm-up on the bed between us, an invitation, not a demand.
Time loosens around us somehow.
My gaze lingers on his open hand.
Hesitating. Measuring the risk.
Then I curl my pinky lightly around his finger, small and careful like I might still lose my nerve.
His breath catches so faintly I almost miss it.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t close the space.
He lets me stay there exactly as I am.
The tenderness of that nearly undoes me.
“I don’t know what comes next,” I whisper. “I just know I don’t want to keep running from myself.”
He turns toward me, quiet in the moonlight. “Me neither. But I’m here if you want.”
After a second, I let my hand slip fully into his.
His fingers fold around mine slowly, carefully, like he understands how fragile tonight feels.
We don’t move past that.
We just sit there breathing in the same quiet.
My eyes sting suddenly, emotion catching me off guard all over again.
Not because everything feels fixed.
Just because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m pretending.
Somewhere outside, the music finally starts to fade.
His hand is still in mine when my eyelids grow heavy. Eventually I yawn and murmur something about washing the day away.
He gives my hand one last squeeze before letting go.
At the door, he lingers, eyes soft, almost searching. “Sleep well.”
I nod. “You too.”
The click of the latch feels louder than it should.
And even after he’s gone, the warmth of his hand stays with me.