Chapter 23 Rose
I’m late, the handles of the bags cutting into my forearms as I kick the door with my foot. I wait, muscles burning, and when I go to kick again, Devon answers.
“Why didn’t you call up?” he asks, stepping aside, reaching awkwardly for the bags before I just set them down.
“Your doorman doesn’t like me.”
“Psh. Johnny likes everybody.”
“He thinks I’m trying to steal Winona’s job,” I say, heading straight for the kitchen.
“Why would he think that?”
I point to the groceries. Winona is Devon’s housekeeper—she does all his shopping.
“I tried to explain it’s just temporary while we sort out your diet plan, but he wasn’t having it. Muttered something about the economy.” I pause. “You’re not firing Winona, are you?”
“Hell no. That woman keeps me functional.”
“Okay, good,” I say, spreading everything on the marble countertop. I open his fridge, already knowing what’s in there from this morning. “Once we figure out what works, you can order online or have Winona grab everything.”
“You’re good at this,” he says, watching me as I sort the greens.
“Grocery shopping?” I laugh, and the familiar sting of inadequacy surfaces.
It’s been there for weeks now. I’ve barely gotten my footing back, and when Devon asked me to take him on as a client—I’m already seeing Deshawn and Wilkes, two of Easton’s other teammates—I said yes.
I need the money. And honestly, even if this isn’t the clientele I pictured, it’s work I’m good at. Work I actually like.
Devon’s test results had come back through his GP, and we’d gone through everything—energy levels, muscle inflammation, bowel movements.
Not the most glamorous conversation, but necessary.
I’d also gotten the green light from his coach to run some yoga sessions with him and a few teammates, though his head trainer had made me justify every line of my plan before signing off, which was fine.
But he questioned me on everything, further denting my confidence that I knew what I was doing.
“Nah, I mean, the whole bag. You’re good at it.”
“Thank you,” I say, looking down at the work. I drag out his blender, writing down quantities, portioning out the fruits and vegetables, walking him through each step. Simple enough that he has no excuse not to do it.
“Not what you want to do, though,” he says a few minutes later, leaning his elbows on the counter. Devon is enormous—like Easton, like most professional football players. He dwarfs me completely. But also, like Easton, he’s a giant teddy bear.
“I love this,” I say honestly. “But no. I’d rather work with people who…”
He barks a laugh. “It’s okay, you can say it.”
“People who need it!” I laugh.
“I need it!”
“Do you, though?” I raise an eyebrow. “You could pay someone else to do this. I’m glad for the work, don’t get me wrong. But there are people out there who can’t afford this kind of attention and probably need it more.”
He grunts. “I don’t exactly have time to do this myself. And this time of year—I’m not on billboards or anything, but fans still get weird during the season. I can’t just walk into a grocery store.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“So’k. You know, you should change your biz to add this in.” He points to the groceries. I hadn’t ever thought about that, since I’d always imagined working at a center. But maybe if I built up enough clients who could pay, I could afford to offer the same thing to people who couldn’t.
We talk a bit more, and I finish up, then head home.
The apartment is empty. Easton’s at the team gym.
When I’m busy, I don’t think—I just move, one foot in front of the other, and it works, it’s enough.
Then I get back and put my keys on the hook, and the apartment is so quiet I can hear the refrigerator hum.
That’s all it takes. Too much space for my loud thoughts to blot my vision.
The fissure in my heart cracks wider the second I stop moving.
I want to call Logan. I want to fight with him, laugh with him, fall asleep next to him. I want to cook for him and hear him complain about thread count like the snobby bitch he is. I want to hear his voice, I want to feel him drive into me.
I wander around the spacious apartment, realizing that as much as I love Easton, this has never been home. It’s beautiful. Modern, with clean lines, massive windows overlooking the city. At night, the view is to die for. It’s a bachelor pad, but it’s his bachelor pad, not mine.
I end up on the couch, staring at the ceiling, trying and failing to push away memories of Logan.
His obnoxiously self-assured grin. His infuriating confidence. That same confidence that eroded my self-esteem, whether I knew it or not. I should hate him for what he did.
I don’t.
I’m angry. Hurt. I feel his betrayal deep in my soul, scorched and burned the very pit of me. But the ember is still there. It lit up when I finally bought a new phone and had an array of messages from him. I blocked the number before I finished reading them, but I keep reopening the old ones.
I’m sorry.
I miss you.
Please let me fix this.
He can’t. And the worst part isn’t even the betrayal itself—it’s that he didn’t know it was me. That everything I do, everything I’ve built, my profession, was a joke to him, and he only acted like he cared after we started sleeping together.
I’m lonely. I didn’t feel this bad when my ex cheated on me. I didn’t feel this bad the day the investors pulled out, or when my father told me it was my fault.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I am a fraud.
Devon doesn’t think so. Neither does Easton.
But Easton’s my best friend, and Devon is his friend, and maybe they’re all just rallying around me, trying to keep me from falling apart, because that’s what friends do.
The door rattles open a few minutes later. I’m sprawled across the living room floor, staring at the ceiling. Easton walks in, still sweaty from the gym, takes one look at me, and heads straight for the kitchen. He comes back with two glasses of wine and sits down on the coffee table.
“You’re too heavy for that. It’s gonna break.”
He laughs. “I’ll buy a new one.”
I hate that phrase, and he knows it. I push myself up, the room tilting. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
“So?”
“You’re in the middle of your season. You shouldn’t be drinking alcohol.”
He ignores me and hands me a glass of the cold vinho verde I’d been saving for later. I take a sip. It’s perfect. Fruity and tart. Only slightly effervescent.
“Do you think my mom would have liked him?” I ask.
I don’t have to explain who I mean.
Easton shrugs. I half expect him to go off—like he did the night he flew home from an away game and found me on the kitchen floor, a mess of tears, and I told him what happened in Georgia.
The plane crash, the drive through the storm, all of it.
Watched him cycle through disbelief, then happiness for me, then barely contained fury.
But he doesn’t go off. He just says, “Yeah. She would have.”
“You’re supposed to say no. That she would have hated him. He’s all wrong for me.”
“Aside from his spectacularly stupid actions, which I’m pretty sure he feels bad about, he’s actually good for you. I didn’t see you two together, but I saw how you looked when you talked about him. She would have liked him because you do.”
“I hate him.” It sounds less convincing out loud than it did in my head.
“I hate that you’re going through this. That everyone in your life keeps taking massive dumps on you.”
“Gross.”
“It’s kinda what they do, though, right?”
“Is this your pep talk?”
“I didn’t realize we were doing pep talks. Okay, pep talk. I’m sorry for what you’re going through. You’ve had it tough. But things will get better. I promise. I know it will.”
“I haven’t had it tough, Easton.”
He snorts. “I’m glad you feel that way.”
“Look around you. I’m living in a high-rise with a view people salivate over. My education is paid for. I have a degree, I have clients. I recognize my privilege. This pity party is so gross.”
“It’s okay to feel shitty. You don’t need to list all the reasons why you shouldn’t. Quit with the toxic positivity, woman.”
“Don’t worry. I definitely feel shitty.”
He laughs. “Good.”
I sip the wine, smirking.
“So, what now?”
I sit up a little straighter. It hurts to say out loud, but it has to be said. One foot in front of the other. “I need to sell the building. And I think I need a new real estate agent.”
Something shifts in his expression. He looks away, evasive. “Actually—let me handle that part. I already have all the specs. And one of the trainers, Mack, his wife does real estate. I’ll reach out.”
I frown. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. So, I’ll handle the building. What else?”
I hadn’t expected him to take that on, and he doesn’t really have time to, not right now, not in the middle of the football season.
But honestly, the relief of not having to face it myself is too much to turn down.
It breaks my heart to let it go. The neighborhood was a little off the beaten path, a little rough around the edges, but there was parking, and the building had good bones—an old mill that had been a lot of things over the years, big enough for everything I needed with room to grow.
A small office tucked into the back center of the floor, so I’d be reachable from anywhere in the space. It hurts to lose it.
So, I let Easton take over selling it. I’ll have to sign something at some point, but giving him executive control makes me feel like I can breathe a little easier.
“Next, I need to start looking for work.”
“Devon and the guys keep raving about what you’ve been doing for them. Why not build on that?”
I nod. “Yeah, I think I will. I just have to come up with a plan where I can still do some of what I wanted, just on a smaller scale. I don’t think I can go work at another clinic.
It’s too depressing. But I could balance personal clients, do street outreach, link up with the hospital teams. Volunteer.
” It won’t be what I had, but it’ll be something.
It’ll be enough to keep me from losing my mind.
“And Logan?” he asks hesitantly. His name, it’s like pressing on a bruise. “Are you going to talk to him?”
“I can’t—I’m not there yet.”
“Okay.” He stands, pours the rest of his glass into mine, then disappears and comes back with the bottle.
“I can’t get sloppy with you, but I can hold your hair back if you wanna go there.
Now scooch,” he says, nudging me onto the couch.
I laugh. Then, without warning, my eyes fill with tears.
I try to blink them back, but they fall anyway.
Easton doesn’t say anything. He just puts his arm around me, turns on the TV, and I tuck myself against him while some reality show fills the room—people stranded on an island, competing for cash.
He’s obsessed with this garbage. I drink, and we bicker about the social merits of reality shows, and somewhere between the takeout and the last glass of wine, I’m asleep.
Logan still there, quiet, at the back of my mind.