Chapter 17
Zane
The text arrives at half past four.
I’m in the middle of a set when my phone buzzes on the floor beside the bench. The sound of it goes straight through my chest. Pathetic, I know. One little vibration and my heart lifts like a dumb fucker who has been sitting around all day, waiting for the right name to appear on the screen.
Skylar.
That is the first thought.
I drop the dumbbell back onto the rack harder than I need to, then sit up, wiping my face with my hand before I reach for the phone. My pulse is already doing stupid shit before I even glance at the screen.
Then I see the name.
It’s Cassie. Not Skylar.
I stare at it for a second because apparently my chest is a hopeful idiot and the universe enjoys kicking it for sport.
I open the message.
Cassie: Working late tonight. Skylar will be at the apartment by herself. Completely unsupervised, emotionally unavailable, and probably pretending she doesn’t want to talk to you. Do with that what you will, Rivera. Try not to be a dick.
The address sits beneath it.
I read the message once.
Then I read it again, more slowly this time.
Skylar will be alone and Cassie, the sharp-mouthed little menace that she is, has just handed me the one thing I have been trying not to want all day. A fucking chance.
For a moment, I just breathe.
It’s close enough that I could be there before common sense can talk me out of it
I have picked up my phone about a thousand times since she drove away from the workshop. Maybe more. I would grab it, open her name, stare at the empty message box, then put the damn thing back down because I had told her I would give her space. And I meant it. That’s the annoying part.
Giving Skylar space sounds noble until you are the one sitting in the silence, wondering whether she is using that space to remember every reason she should stay the fuck away from you. Every reason why touching me again was a terrible fucking idea, wrapped in old feelings and bad impulse control.
The not knowing is its own kind of punishment. It gets under my skin, sits there, and starts whispering shit I don’t need to think about.
I look at my phone again and stare at Cassie’s very unsubtle attempt to throw me in Skylar’s direction while pretending she’s not absolutely doing just that.
The woman sent an address. There is no universe in which that is casual. Subtlety has never been Cassie’s thing. Neither has minding her own business apparently.
Unfortunately, I am starting to think those might be two of her best qualities.
I’m glad Skylar has Cassie in her life. That is the truest and simplest thing I can say about this entire fucking mess.
Whatever happens between us. Whatever Skylar decides.
Whether she lets me near her again or decides that one night with me was enough to remind her I come with too much damage and not nearly enough warning labels, I am glad she has Cassie.
Skylar needed someone who stayed. She got Cassie. Loud, nosy, stubborn Cassie, who apparently treats boundaries as gentle suggestions and emotional interference as a civic duty.
I should hate it, but I don’t.
I get up before I can talk myself out of it.
Rainer’s voice slips straight into my head, calm, gravelly, and inconvenient as fuck. Give her space, son.
I am giving her space.
Mostly.
Kind of.
In a way that may not hold up in court, but still feels emotionally sound if no one studies the evidence too closely.
Because going to her is not deciding for her.
I’m not showing up to drag answers out of her.
I am not kicking the door open and demanding that she hand me all the pieces of herself she’s still trying to keep safe from me.
I’m just showing up. That’s all.
Showing up. Knocking. Letting her decide whether I stay or whether she tells me to fuck off, taking my unresolved emotional damage with me.
Those are different things. Different enough that I can almost convince myself I am not a complete fucking idiot.
I grab a quick shower, scrubbing the sweat off my skin as my head runs through every possible version of what happens next. None of them are good.
Skylar could tell me to leave. She could shut the door in my face. She could stand there with those tired eyes and that sharp mouth, reminding me that one night does not fix seven years of shit.
She would be right, too. All of it would fucking hurt, but it would be fair.
I turn off the water, dry off quickly, and pull on a clean shirt and my best jeans before I give myself too much time to think. Thinking has never done me any favors where Skylar is concerned. It just hands my heart a shovel and tells it to dig deeper.
I grab my jacket from the hook behind the door and shove my phone into my pocket. Then I leave before courage has time to sober up and talk me out of it.
The street outside is doing what streets always do at this hour. Moving. Breathing. Acting as if every person on it has somewhere important to be and a clear fucking idea of what will happen when they get there.
People spill out of office buildings, their faces tired, ties loosened, and eyes dead, as if they have spent eight hours pretending their inbox was not slowly eating their soul.
Cars crawl along the curb, impatient and loud, their horns snapping through the evening air because apparently no one in this city can sit still for three seconds without making it everybody else’s problem.
A bus hisses at the stop ahead of me, its doors folding open to swallow a line of people who seem as worn out as I feel.
I walk with my hands in my pockets, Cassie’s address lodged in my head.
Three blocks down. Left at the lights. Another two blocks after that. Easy. Simple.
The city moves around me, completely unaware that I am trying to figure out what the hell I’m even supposed to say when Skylar opens the door.
Usually, I have words. A smart comment. A blunt truth.
Some bullshit sharp enough to cut through the quiet and make people look away from the mess beneath.
Words have always been useful that way. A decent distraction.
A quick exit. A nice little verbal smoke bomb for a man with no idea how to stand still in something real.
But with Skylar, everything gets stuck behind my ribs.
I pass a coffee shop with fogged windows, people crowded around small tables, laughing into cups they hold with both hands.
All those people sitting there with their ordinary lives and their ordinary little problems, which probably don’t involve knocking on the door of the woman they have loved and fucked over in equal measure.
Two women come toward me from the opposite direction, dressed for the kind of night that starts with cocktails and ends in mistakes. One of them looks up first. Then the other.
I know that look on women. I’ve seen it since I was old enough to understand that a pretty face could be used as currency.
Back then, I leaned into it. I let girls look.
Let them want. Let them mistake the smirk, the tattoos, and the bad decisions for something interesting rather than what they really were.
It was easy. Smile at the right time. Lower my voice. Let them think they were the only person in the room for a few hours. Make them feel chosen while giving them nothing real enough to hold on to.
It got me blowjobs in bathrooms, sex whenever I wanted, and enough temporary heat to pretend I was not cold anywhere it counted.
Back then, I thought that was power. Now it just feels cheap. A trick performed by a younger version of me who didn’t know the difference between being wanted and being known.
The two women hold my gaze a second longer than necessary. Then one of them smiles.
A few years ago, I would have smiled back.
I would have let their smile hook me and drag me wherever it wanted to go, because casual was simple.
It didn’t ask questions or stand in front of me with hurt in her eyes and years of damage between us.
Casual didn’t know my worst parts by name and still made my chest ache every time she looked at me.
I keep walking. I don’t want easy, a warm body or a forgettable name. All I want is Skylar, which is inconvenient as fuck, considering Skylar has every reason in the world not to want me back.
As they pass me, I hear them giggle. It’s soft, flirty, harmless. The kind of sound that used to make my ego sit up and wag its tail. Now it just makes me shove my hands deeper into my pockets and keep walking.
I turn left at the lights and head down the block.
The street changes a little here. Less glass and office lights. More cracked pavement, older brick, and windows with half-drawn blinds with people’s lives tucked safely behind.
A man in a puffer jacket walks toward me, a tiny dog in a knitted jumper trotting at his feet. The dog has the kind of confidence only something that small can have—chest out, nose up, completely unaware it could be punted into next week by a strong breeze.
The man nods as I pass by. The dog looks me up and down, unimpressed.
I pass a closed florist, a laundromat humming under fluorescent lights, and a takeout place that smells of fried oil and bad life choices.
The closer I get, the slower my steps want to go. Not because I am changing my mind.
Every block behind me takes another excuse with it. Another second to think. Another chance to turn around and pretend I am respecting the space she needs, instead of following Cassie’s text across town like a man with good intentions and shit impulse control.
I wait at the curb for a car to pass before stepping onto the road and crossing to the next block.
Skylar and Cassie’s block.
I drag a hand over my jaw, lift my head, and force air into my lungs before I reach her building.