Chapter 39 Chasing Echoes
Chasing Echoes
Day One
The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that the bed still smelled like her.
Her scent lingered, woven into the fabric of his sheets, soaked into his motherfucking skin.
Vanilla and salt and something else—something indescribable, something that was just Savannah. It was everywhere, trapped in the fibers of his pillowcase, clinging to the worn cotton of the sheets, floating in the air around him.
And God, it was fucking torture.
Because every time he breathed in, every time he shifted even the slightest bit, it felt like she was still there.
Like if he just rolled over, reached across the bed, his fingers would find the smooth, warm skin of her waist, the dip of her spine.
Like if he opened his eyes, he would see her, curled up beside him, her blonde hair fanned out over his pillow, her breath slow and even, her lips parted just slightly.
But when he finally forced his eyes open, she wasn’t there.
Just empty sheets.
Just a cold bed.
Just a hollow, aching void where she should be.
Chase lay there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling, his arms spread wide across the bed like maybe—just maybe—if he reached far enough, she would still be there.
That if he stayed still, if he refused to move, refused to acknowledge that this was real, the universe might take pity on him and give him one more second with her.
One more moment.
One more breath.
But he wasn’t that fucking lucky.
The weight in his chest was unbearable, pressing down like something tangible, like a fist clenching around his ribs, squeezing until his breath came in slow, uneven drags.
He closed his eyes again.
Maybe if he fell back asleep, he could dream of her.
Maybe if he stayed like this, he wouldn’t have to remember that she was gone.
And nothing—fucking nothing—was the same.
Day Two
The quiet was unbearable.
It filled every room, settled into every crack and corner, thick and suffocating, pressing against his skin like a weight he couldn’t shake.
Chase had never been the kind of man who needed noise, but now?
Now, the silence was deafening.
No sound of her bare feet padding across the hardwood floors.
No soft hum of her voice in the morning as she made coffee, as she stole sips of his before he could even take a damn drink.
No laughter from the bathroom when she thought he wasn’t listening.
No distant sound of the old radio she liked to turn on while she got ready.
Just nothing.
Just the dull, empty echo of a house that felt less like a home and more like a fucking mausoleum.
He got up, dragging his hands down his face, the weight in his chest heavier than it had been the night before. It was a different kind of exhaustion—one that settled deep, one that made even breathing feel like too much effort.
And then he saw it.
Her shirt.
His fucking Henley, the one she had worn so perfectly, draped over the hamper like a silent reminder of what he’d lost.
He stared at it, his breathing uneven, his fists clenching at his sides.
It wasn’t just the shirt.
It was everything.
The coffee cup in the sink, the one she had used more than her own.
The bobby pin on the bathroom counter, sitting there like a goddamn ghost.
The half-burned candle on the kitchen counter, the one she had insisted smelled like home, the scent of warm amber and vanilla still lingering in the air.
The book on his nightstand, still dog-eared to the page she had stopped reading the night before she left.
She was gone.
But her echoes were haunting him.
Still no word.
Still no text.
Still nothing.
By noon, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his truck keys and left, driving aimlessly through town, past all the places that reminded him of her.
The marina, where she had met him that first day, looking like a fucking dream.
The bookstore, where she had traced her fingers over the spines of novels like they held the answers to the universe.
The coffee shop, where she had stolen sips of his drink, smirking when he pretended to be pissed.
The beach, where she had walked beside him in the moonlight, the waves lapping at her ankles, her hand wrapped so tightly around his that it felt like she never wanted to let go.
Everywhere he went, she was there.
But in reality?
She was nowhere.
Day Three
He stayed at the dock all day.
Didn’t eat.
Didn’t sleep.
Just sat there, staring at the water, listening to the waves as they crashed against the pilings.
She should have been here. She belonged here.
Chase leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair.
He had told her he loved her. Had bared his fucking soul to her. Had given her everything.
And still—she left.
His jaw locked, his throat burned, his entire body coiled tight.
He had never felt like this before. Not when loved ones passed. Not when he had lost friends.
Because this wasn’t just heartbreak.
This was fucking devastation.
And the worst part?
She was the only one who could fix it.
Still no word.
Still nothing.
Day Four
The knock on his door came mid-afternoon.
Chase barely moved.
He had been in the same spot for hours, staring blankly at the floor, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a lead blanket.
He didn’t want company.
Didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to fucking exist in this moment without her.
So when he heard the knock, he almost didn’t answer.
Until he heard her voice.
Sara.
“Chase, open the damn door.”
He exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face before pulling it open.
And there they were.
Jaxon and Sara.
His best friend and the woman who had wrecked him before she had become his world.
Chase’s stomach twisted. He didn’t need to ask why they were here.
Mallory.—That meddling little shit must have called Sara.
Jaxon didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, his gaze heavy, knowing. Because Jaxon had been here before.
He had lived through this. He had lost Sara once. And he knew exactly what Chase was going through.
Sara was the first to step forward, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I tried to talk her into staying.”
Chase didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just stood there, his body stiff, his breath shallow.
“Did she even think about it?” He asked hoarsely, his voice barely there.
Sara pulled back, her eyes filled with something that looked like pity. “Chase—”
And that was all the answer he needed. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, stepping away.
Jaxon finally spoke. “Come on, man. We’re taking you out.”
Chase let out a bitter laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not in the mood.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Sara said, giving him a pointed look.
Chase opened his mouth to argue, but Jaxon was already pushing past him, grabbing his keys off the counter. “Low-Tide. Now.”
Chase clenched his jaw but followed them out the door. Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?
Sit here and drown in the memories of her? Sit here and keep checking his phone like some desperate asshole?
Because she wasn’t calling.
She wasn’t texting.
She had left. And she wasn’t coming back.
The Low-Tide Tavern was packed.
People laughed, talked, lived.
And Chase?
He just sat at the bar, nursing his drink, barely listening to the band playing in the background.
Jaxon and Sara were somewhere in the crowd, giving him space.
But space didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
Because this place?
It was still hers.
The booth in the corner? The one where he, Savannah, Mallory, and Nate had shared that perfect meal?
It was still there. Empty. Mocking him.
Chase took a slow sip of whiskey, his fingers tightening around the glass.
Jenna had stopped by earlier. She leaned in, smiled, traced a manicured nail down his arm.
“Miss me, Montgomery?” she had teased.
But Chase?
He had barely looked at her. Because he couldn’t. Because the only woman he wanted wasn’t here.
Jenna eventually took the hint and walked away, and Chase just sat there, drinking, staring at the table where she had once sat.
Laughing. Happy.
His chest ached.
He could have had that forever.
He should have had that forever.
But now?
Now he was just waiting.
For the day when he could walk into this bar, sit at this stool, and not think about her.
Because God help him—
Right now, he couldn’t imagine a day when he wouldn’t.