Chapter 14 #2
"Bullshit." But she says it gently. "You want it so bad you're terrified of it. So you're gonna go have coffee with Nice Uncomplicated Grant and see if you can convince yourself that butterflies are overrated."
I open my mouth. Close it. She's right and I hate it.
"Go to coffee," she says. "See how it feels. But don't lie to yourself about why you're going."
Well. Fuck. She's got me there.
I shove another bite of pancake in my mouth instead of answering. The coffee's gone cold—I take a sip anyway, bitter and over-steeped, and it tastes like admitting she's right.
The waitress appears. Tops off both our mugs. I watch the steam curl up from mine, think about Grant's easy smile, his straightforward texts, the way he doesn't make my heart try to punch through my ribs.
"What if hard isn't worth it?" I ask quietly.
"What if it is?" Maeve counters. "What if you walk away from the best thing that ever happened to you because you're scared and he's scared and neither of you will just—" She makes an exasperated sound. "Talk to each other like adults?"
"I tried talking to him."
"Once. You tried once, while he was in a full-blown panic spiral." She points at me. "I'm not saying give him forever. But maybe give him more than a week to unfuck his own head."
I want to argue. Want to defend my decision to move on, to protect myself, to choose something safer. But the words won't come.
"I already told Grant yes," I say instead.
"So go. See what it feels like. Maybe it'll be great." She doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe you'll sit there the whole time wishing you were somewhere else."
"That's not fair."
"What's not fair is you pretending you don't know what you want." But her voice is gentle. "You can lie to Holt. You can lie to Grant. Hell, you can lie to me. But don't lie to yourself, Scout. You're better than that."
I finish my pancakes. The last bite sits heavy in my stomach—too much food after days of nothing. The coffee's still bitter. I drink it anyway.
Maeve slides out of the booth, holds out her hand. "Come on. We're going shopping."
"I don't need—"
"Yes you do. You need something that's just yours. Something that makes you feel like yourself again." She pulls me up. "Trust me on this one too."
The boutique's wedged between a hardware store and a Mexican restaurant, windows catching the afternoon light. Lavender smell hits when we walk in—sachets maybe, or candles. Soft music plays from somewhere. Racks of sundresses line the walls, fabric in every color.
Maeve prowls through them like she's hunting something. Pulling hangers, holding things up to the light, making these theatrical rejection sounds.
"No. No. God no, what is this, a tablecloth?" She shoves a floral thing back onto the rack and I laugh. Actually laugh. It bubbles up from somewhere I thought had dried up completely, catching in my throat.
Maeve grins at me. "There she is. I was starting to worry you'd forgotten how."
"Forgotten how to what?"
"Laugh. Smile. Be anything other than a sad ghost haunting her own desk." She turns back to the dresses. "Aha. This one."
She holds up a dress the color of sage—soft green that makes me think of early spring, of things growing. Simple. Almost plain. But something about it makes my chest ache. The fabric looks soft. Worn-in. Like it would feel like butter.
"Try it," she says.
"Maeve, I don't need—"
"Try. It." She shoves it into my hands. "You need something that makes you feel good. Now go."
The dressing room's narrow. Mirror warped at the edges. I pull the dress over my head and—
Oh.
It fits like it was made for me. The fabric is soft, exactly as soft as it looked. The color makes my skin look sun-warmed instead of washed out. I run my hands down the sides, watch the way it moves. I look like myself. Not armor Scout or shop-gremlin Scout or broken Scout. Just—me.
When's the last time I felt pretty?
I step out and Maeve looks up from her phone. Something in her face softens.
"Perfect," she says.
"It's really nice, but I don't know if—"
"We're getting it." She's already moving toward the register.
"Maeve, wait—"
But she's not waiting. She's handing her card to the clerk, waving off my protests without looking back. "Gift. No arguments."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. I want to." She turns and there's something fierce in her face. "You need something that's just yours. Something that makes you feel good. Period. End of discussion."
The clerk bags the dress in tissue paper. Hands it over with a smile. Maeve takes it, passes it to me.
"There. Now you have something beautiful that has nothing to do with any of them. Not Holt. Not Grant. Not the shop. Just you."
My eyes burn. I'm not going to cry in this boutique surrounded by sundresses and lavender. I'm not. Instead I hug her. Hard enough to hear her laugh.
"Thank you."
"That's what friends do, honey. We show up."
I hold the dress bag in my lap as we drive home and watch the desert roll past—all that yellow-white shimmer, heat waves rising off the asphalt.
"Tell me about this Grant guy," Maeve says.
I fidget with the bag. Tissue paper crinkles under my fingers. "There's not much to tell. He's nice. Uncomplicated. Asked me for coffee tomorrow morning."
"Nice and uncomplicated. Real sexy."
"Shut up." But I'm smiling. "He's—I don't know. He's easy to talk to. Doesn't make me feel like I'm too much or not enough or whatever."
"So he's safe."
"Is that bad?"
"Depends." She glances over. "You looking for safe or you looking for right?"
I don't answer. A hawk circles overhead, riding thermals. The sky's so blue it hurts to look at.
"Do what feels right for you," Maeve says after a while. "Not what punishes Holt. Not what protects him. You. What does Scout Adler want?"
"I want to not feel like this anymore."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm drowning. Like—" My voice catches. "Like I asked for something I shouldn't have and now everything's broken."
"Hey." She reaches over, squeezes my knee. "You didn't break anything. You were honest. That's not a crime, Scout. That's not even a mistake."
"Then why does it feel like I ruined everything?"
"Because you're completely in love with him, you spectacular idiot."
My mouth opens. Closes.
"Yeah," Maeve says. "That's what I thought.
You love him. And he hurt you. Not with the sex—with the running away after.
With the silence. With deciding he knows better than you what you can handle.
" She signals for the turn back toward Coyote Bend.
"So now you get to decide. Go to coffee with Grant. See if safe is enough. Or—"
"Or what?"
"Or you could wait. Give Holt time to pull his head out of his ass. See if he's brave enough to come back."
"And if he's not?"
"Then fuck him. You go live your life. Find someone who is." She looks at me hard. "But Scout? Don't settle for easy just because you're scared of hard. You're braver than that."
I turn back to the window. The town appears on the horizon—buildings wavering in the heat like a mirage. "What if I'm not?"
"You are. You already proved it by asking for what you wanted in the first place. Most people never even get there."
"Look where it got me."
"It got you to the truth. What Holt does with that truth—that's on him. Not you."
The road hums. Maeve hums along to the radio—some country song about heartbreak and highways.
The shop appears—weathered concrete, hand-painted sign, Finn's truck parked out front. Maeve pulls into the lot, dust rising behind us, and I sit there with the dress bag in my lap.
Not ready. Not quite ready yet.
"You gonna be okay?" Maeve asks.
"Yeah. I think so."
"You're not broken." She says it fierce, like she can will it into truth. "Don't let anyone make you think you are. Not Holt. Not yourself. Nobody."
I hug her hard across the console. "Thank you. For today. For everything. For not letting me just—disappear into that desk."
"That's what I'm here for. Now go. And text me after coffee tomorrow. Tell me if safe is actually what you need."
"What if I don't know?"
"Then you'll figure it out. That's what we do, honey. We figure it out."
I climb out. Dress bag swings from my fingers. Watch her drive away in a cloud of dust and sunlight, taillights getting smaller until they're gone.
The shop looks the same as always. But I feel different. Like spending the day away gave me just enough distance to see it clearly.
Or just clearly enough to know what I'm about to lose.
I push through the door. The bay's quieter now—late Friday afternoon, most of the work done. Finn's putting tools away, radio playing low. He looks up when I walk in and relief floods his face.
"Hey. You look better."
"Maeve force-fed me pancakes."
"Smart woman." He goes back to the lift he's working on. "Holt's in the back. Workshop."
I nod. Keep walking toward the stairs, dress bag swinging. My heart's already picking up speed.
"Scout?"
I stop. Look back.
"Whatever's going on with you two—" He shakes his head. "He's miserable. For what it's worth."
"Yeah well, me too."
I climb the stairs but at the top I pause. The workshop door's open. Holt's at the workbench, organizing tools. His shoulders are tight. Jaw set.
I could keep walking. Go to my room, text Grant back, get ready for tomorrow like nothing's changed.
I turn toward the workshop instead.
He looks up. Sees me. Sees the shopping bag.
Something crosses his face—hope maybe, or longing, or regret. Our eyes meet and my heart's trying to punch through my ribs. For a second I think he might say something. Might finally say something.
"Scout."
"Yeah?"
A long pause. So long I start to think he's changed his mind. He sets down the wrench, turns to face me fully. His mouth opens.
Then closes.
"Never mind."
The words are so quiet I almost miss them. He turns back to the workbench, picks up the wrench again, and I can see it in his shoulders—he's forcing himself not to look at me. Forcing himself to let me go.
I stand there. Waiting. Giving him the chance.
He doesn't take it.
"Okay then," I say. My voice cracks on the second word but I don't know if he hears it.
I turn. Walk to my room. Close the door. Sit on the bed with the dress bag in my lap and pull out my phone. Grant's text is still there, patient and uncomplicated. Still on for tomorrow?
I could ignore it. Could keep myself locked in this limbo where I'm waiting for Holt to wake up and realize I'm not made of glass.
Or I could move forward. Could choose easy instead of hard. Could prove that I'm capable of more than drowning in the silence of a man who won't fight for what we both want.
My thumbs move before I can overthink it.
Saturday sounds great. 10 AM?
The response comes almost immediately.
Perfect. Looking forward to it.
I set the phone down. Pull the sage dress from the bag. Hold it up to the fading light. It's beautiful. It's mine. It's exactly what I needed.
Even if what I needed isn't what I want.
I hang it on the back of my door where I can see it—proof that I'm taking care of myself, that I'm moving forward, that I'm making choices. Good choices. Healthy choices. The kind that prioritize my own wellbeing over waiting around for a man who can't believe I know my own mind.
I should feel proud. Maeve would be proud. Finn would probably be relieved. This is the mature thing, the smart thing, the thing that protects my heart instead of offering it up to someone too scared to take it.
So why does every part of me feel like I just made the worst decision of my life?
Why does easy feel like settling?
Why does the right choice feel so completely wrong?
I lie back on my bed. Still dressed. Stare at the sage dress hanging on my door. Tomorrow I'll wear it. Tomorrow I'll meet Grant for coffee. Tomorrow I'll smile and laugh and be the version of myself that doesn't feel like she's drowning.
Tomorrow I'll prove I can move forward.
Even if forward feels like the wrong direction entirely.