Chapter 16
Hey Grant. You're a really great guy, and I had a good time yesterday. But I'm not in the right place for this right now. I'm sorry. I hope you find someone who can give you what you deserve.
Hit send before I can second-guess it. Before the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother can tell me I'm being stupid, throwing away a good thing, sabotaging myself over some guy who won't even finish a sentence.
The reply comes fast.
No worries. I figured. Hope things work out for you. Take care.
I stare at the screen.
Wait for regret to hit.
Nothing.
Just relief pouring through me, shoulders dropping, that tight band around my ribs finally loosening. There it is. The answer I needed. Not in what I feel about Grant—in what I don't feel.
I set the phone down on the nightstand. Take a breath. Another.
Okay. Now what?
I know what I want. Know who I want. But wanting and having are two completely different things, and after last night—after he stopped himself mid-sentence, after he let me walk away again—I don't know where that leaves us.
Twenty minutes drag by. My legs are cramping from sitting cross-legged but I don't move. Haven't figured out a single thing except that I'm tired of running and tired of waiting and tired of not knowing if what I feel is mutual or just my own desperate imagination making patterns out of silence.
A knock on the door.
My heart kicks hard. That stupid flutter thing that only happens with him.
"It's me." Holt's voice, muffled through the door.
My pulse is in my throat now, in my hands, everywhere. "Come in."
The door opens. He stays in the threshold like he's not sure he's allowed, like this is my space and he needs permission to enter.
Still in yesterday's clothes—jeans and a black t-shirt that's seen better days, hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it.
Dark circles under his eyes. Looks like he hasn't slept.
"You look like hell."
"Yeah." A pause. His throat works. "Can we talk?"
My chest goes tight. "Yeah. We should."
He crosses to the bed. Sits on the edge, keeping distance between us. The mattress dips with his weight and I'm hyper-aware of the space separating us, the charged air, how the morning light is harsh through the window—exposing everything. No shadows to hide in. No soft edges.
Neither of us looks at the other at first. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them. Wait.
"I need to tell you why I left." His voice is low, measured. Each word chosen carefully like he's been rehearsing this. "The real reason."
"Okay."
He takes a breath. I watch his chest expand, watch him brace himself. This is hard for him. I can see it in the way his hands clench on his thighs, the tension in his jaw, how his shoulders are braced like he's preparing for impact.
"My dad..." Another breath. "He wasn't a good man."
"He drank. Got mean." His voice goes flat, like he's reciting facts to make them easier. Like if he doesn't feel it while he's saying it, maybe it won't hurt. "My mom—she took the worst of it."
My throat gets tight but I don't interrupt. Just watch him, watch the muscle jump in his jaw, watch him stare at his hands like they hold answers.
"I'd come home from school and she'd have new bruises. A split lip. Fingerprints on her arms." He says it like he's reading from a list. "She'd make excuses. Say she fell. Say it was an accident. But I knew."
I can picture it. Young Holt, what—ten? Twelve? Coming home to that. Watching it happen. Powerless.
"She'd lie about it. Every time. And I'd stand there and know she was lying and not be able to do anything about it." His hands are fists now, knuckles going white. "I knew, and I couldn't do anything. I was too small. Too weak."
"You were a kid." The words come before I can stop them, soft and immediate.
"Doesn't change anything." I watch him swallow, watch the tension ripple through his shoulders. "I watched him hurt her for years. Watched her lie about it. Watched her stay."
He finally looks at me. The shame's right there, the guilt, the weight of all those years carved into his face. Something cracks in my chest.
"When I saw the bruise on your hip..." He stops. His hands are shaking now—I can see them trembling on his thighs. "That's all I could see. My mom. The marks he left."
Oh.
OH.
My ribs ache and it's not for me—it's for him, for what he witnessed, for the fear he must've carried. For young Holt watching his mother lie and being too small to stop it.
"And then I thought about your ex." His voice drops even lower. "What you told me he did to you. The control. The way he made you feel small."
He looks at me again and his eyes are gutted, completely exposed, everything visible in this harsh morning light. The shame, the fear, the self-hatred—all of it right there on his face.
"I convinced myself I was no better than either of them." Sweat's beading at his hairline and he doesn't wipe it away. "That I'd hurt you. That wanting that kind of power over you—even for a minute—made me like him."
I shake my head but he keeps going—needs to get this all out.
"You said you wanted it. You asked for it. But all I could think was: my mom said she was fine too. She made excuses too." His voice cracks right there, breaks clean down the middle. "And I didn't believe her either."
Silence falls. He's staring at his hands and they're still shaking. I'm crying without meaning to, tears hot on my cheeks, and I wipe at them with the back of my hand but they keep coming.
"So I ran." His voice is barely there now. "Because I was terrified of becoming him. Terrified of being another man who hurt you and made you think it was okay. Because you are the last person in the world I want to see hurt."
I can hear his breathing—rough and uneven—and mine matching it.
"Holt, I'm so sorry that happened to you." My voice comes out thick. "That you had to see that. That you grew up thinking love looked like that."
His shoulders are so tight they're practically at his ears, braced like he's waiting for me to leave. Every line of his body screams expectation of abandonment.
"But I'm not your mother." I say it firm. Clear. "And you're not Evan. And you're sure as hell not your father."
He flinches slightly. Good.
My voice gets harder as I speak, something fierce rising in my chest. "What happened between us—that was my choice. My ask. You don't get to take that away from me because you're scared."
I lean forward. Make him look at me. Need him to see this, need him to understand. His eyes meet mine—devastated and afraid—but I don't soften. Not yet.
"I told you I was okay. I told you I wanted it. And you didn't believe me. You decided for me that I was lying or confused or broken."
He flinches harder this time. Takes the hit square in the chest.
"That's exactly what Evan did." My voice is steel now. "He decided what I wanted, what I could handle, who I was allowed to be."
I pause, letting him fully understand.
"And you did the same thing."
His face goes white. "I know—"
"Do you?" I lean closer, not letting him escape this. "Because taking away my choice to protect me from myself? That's his playbook, Holt. Not yours."
"I know." His voice is barely a whisper now. "I know. Finn—Finn made me see it. That I was taking away your choice just like he did."
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. Not forgiveness yet, but relief that he gets it. That someone made him see. "Good. Because I need you to understand: I'm not fragile. I'm not going to break. And I know my own mind."
"I know you do." His voice is stronger now, more certain.
"Do you?" I hold his gaze. "Because it doesn't feel like you trust me to know what I want."
"I do. I trust you." He sounds sure for the first time since he walked in, voice solid and grounded. "I just didn't trust myself."
I nod slowly. Let that settle between us in the stifling heat. "Okay."
Silence stretches. He runs a hand through his hair—a sharp, frustrated gesture. His shirt's soaked through at the collar now, sticking to his shoulders.
"I'm sorry." His voice is rough, worn thin. "For leaving. For not talking to you. For making you feel like you did something wrong when you didn't."
I'm crying openly now, can't hold it back. Sweat and tears both running down my face and I don't bother wiping either away. "You should have told me. About your dad. About why it scared you so much."
"I know."
"I would have understood. We could have talked about it. But you just... disappeared."
"I know. I fucked up." His hands are shaking harder now—trembling on his thighs where I can see every minute movement. "I don't know how to do this, Scout."
His voice drops so low I almost miss it. "I don't know how to... not be afraid."
I reach out. Slow. My hand covers his and his fingers are cold despite the heat, despite the sweat on both of us. He goes still like he's afraid to move, afraid I'll pull away.
"You learn. We learn. Together."
He looks at our joined hands like he can't believe I'm touching him, like it might break if he moves.
"Can you forgive me?"
I breathe out slowly. Let the truth settle in my chest before I speak it, feeling the weight of it, the honesty. "I want to try."
It's honest. It's not a no. It's not a yes. It's real.
Hope flickers in his eyes. Dies. Comes back. He's fighting not to believe it, fighting not to hope.
I squeeze his hand again. Feel the calluses, feel how his fingers tighten around mine like he's anchoring himself to this moment.
We sit there in the morning light, still holding hands, and my heartbeat's starting to slow, the adrenaline finally draining away. The heat presses in from all sides but somehow it doesn't feel suffocating anymore.
"I ended it with Grant." I say it quiet. Matter-of-fact. "This morning. Before you came up."
His eyes flick to mine. Surprise washes over his face, and something else—relief, maybe. Hope. "Why?"
I shrug but my heart's pounding again, pulse kicking up in my throat. "Because he's not you. Because easy isn't what I want."
The admission hangs between us in the harsh sunlight. Real. Terrifying.
"What do you want?"
I look at him. Really look at him. The exhaustion carved into his face, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. The hope fighting through the fear, visible in every part of him. All of it visible in the morning light that shows everything, hides nothing.
"I want someone who's brave enough to stay. Even when it's hard. Even when they're scared."
He swallows, tension rippling through his jaw. "I'm trying to be that."
"I know." I squeeze his hand again, feel his fingers tighten around mine. "So keep trying."
He nods. We sit there a little longer, not talking, just breathing in the same space.
His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand and I notice each small movement, the gentle pressure, the rough callus dragging against my skin.
The sunlight shifts, warming my shoulders through the window.
Gold light spilling through now, turning everything softer.
Neither of us moves. We just sit here breathing together, and for the first time since he left, the space between us doesn't feel like a canyon.
It feels like patience.