CHAPTER 14
The Day After
Kathy — POV
Kathy didn't sleep.
That was the first thing.
She lay in her small bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything. The news broadcast. Brad's face on screen. The way the world saw him. The way she had seen him.
Two different men.
Or maybe —
the same man, just undressed of all the things he had been hiding.
She turned over and punched her pillow.
"This is stupid," she muttered.
But she couldn't stop thinking.
About his voice when he said her name. About the way he stood in her shop like he belonged there. About the flowers he bought for no reason. About the silence between them that never felt empty.
None of it had been fake.
She knew that.
But it hadn't been complete either.
And that was the part that hurt.
He had let her fall for a version of him that didn't include the truth.
Not because the version was fake.
But because the truth would have changed everything.
And he knew that.
And he chose silence anyway.
Kathy closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, morning light was slipping through her curtains — pale, indifferent, the same as every other morning.
She hadn't slept at all.
She sat up slowly, feeling heavy in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from her aunt.
"You opening today? Or do you need me to cover?"
Kathy stared at the screen.
Her first instinct was to say no. To stay home. To hide under her blankets and pretend the world didn't exist.
But that wasn't her.
That had never been her.
She typed back:
"I'll open. Just late."
Then she got up.
The walk to the shop felt longer than usual.
Every step heavier.
By the time she unlocked the door, her hands were trembling slightly — not from cold, from everything she wasn't saying.
She stepped inside.
The shop smelled the same. Flowers. Soil. Lavender near the window.
But it didn't feel the same.
Nothing did.
Kathy stood in the middle of the room and just... breathed.
In.
Out.
Again.
"I'm fine," she whispered.
Then, louder: "I'm still here."
That mattered.
The shop was still hers. The flowers still needed watering. The customers would still come. Life would still move forward.
Even if he wasn't part of it anymore.
Even if —
She stopped that thought before it finished.
She worked in silence for hours.
Watered the plants. Checked the delivery. Rearranged the roses near the window. Did everything on autopilot, because thinking too much hurt.
Outside, the Columbia River kept flowing.
Mount Hood kept standing. Hood River kept being Hood River — small, quiet, indifferent to her broken heart.
The farmers' market would open in an hour.
The coffee shop would run out of oat milk by ten.
Life would keep happening, with or without her permission.
Around noon, the bell rang.
Kathy looked up automatically.
Her heart jumped.
Then dropped.
Just a customer.
Not him.
She forced a smile. "Hi. Can I help you?"
The customer bought a small bouquet and left.
Kathy stood behind the counter, staring at the door.
Stop waiting for him, she told herself.
He's not coming.
And even if he does —
you're not ready.
But her chest ached anyway.
Later that afternoon, her aunt came by.
Took one look at her and said, "You look terrible."
Kathy laughed — a broken, hollow sound. "Thanks."
Her aunt set down a bag of food. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry. Eat."
Kathy sighed but opened the bag.
They sat together in silence for a while.
Then her aunt said quietly, "It's that man, isn't it?"
Kathy didn't answer.
Her aunt nodded like she understood. "Men like that — they always leave a mark. Even when they don't mean to."
"He didn't leave," Kathy said quietly.
Her aunt raised an eyebrow. "Then where is he?"
Kathy didn't have an answer.
Because she didn't know.
And that was the worst part.
She wasn't sure if she wanted him to come back.
But she also wasn't sure if she could handle him not coming back.
Her aunt squeezed her hand. "You're stronger than this. You've always been stronger than this."
Kathy nodded slowly.
"I know," she said.
But she didn't feel strong.
She felt like a flower someone had cut and left in water — still alive, but waiting for roots that might never grow.
That night, she closed the shop alone.
Locked the door.
Leaned her forehead against the glass. It was cool against her skin.
"Come back," she whispered.
Then shook her head at herself.
"Or don't."
She didn't know which one she actually meant.
But she knew one thing for certain:
She wasn't going to break either way.
She had survived worse than a man who couldn't tell the truth.
And she would survive this too.