Chapter 39 #2
She flips a page on the clipboard. “We can promote it as a surprise reading. That usually draws a decent crowd, especially with a new release.”
“Good.”
I glance toward the stage again and picture it filled with people listening. Hearing the words the way I did. Understanding them the way I didn’t—at first.
My jaw tightens slightly.
“I’ll need copies available for purchase,” I add.
Andrea nods. “We can arrange that if the publisher delivers in time.”
“They will.”
She studies me for a second, then smiles again—more certain this time.
“Then we’re all set.”
* * *
By the time I get back to my apartment, the place still feels wrong. I loosen my tie and toss it onto the counter, heading straight for the living room.
The book is still where I left it. I pick it up without thinking and drop onto the couch because now I need to find it.
The part that says everything I didn’t say. Everything I got wrong that she tried to show me before I shut it down.
I flip through the pages slowly this time, letting it land.
Scene after scene unfolds. The hero trying to control everything around him because it’s the only way he knows how to exist.
My chest tightens because I don’t need to translate that anymore. I get it now.
I keep flipping, looking for something that feels right.
Not just the story, but her voice, her perspective. The way she saw him … saw me.
Then I find it near the end. It’s a quiet moment. No big drama. Just the heroine watching the hero when he doesn’t realize it.
My fingers still on the page as I read. This is it, the way she saw me. Not the version I’ve spent years controlling, but the real one.
My grip tightens slightly on the edge of the page. Now I understand something I didn’t before. She wasn’t exposing me. She was honoring me.
The thought settles deeper than I expected.
I lean back against the couch, staring at the page for a long moment.
I’m going to stand in front of a room full of people and read this out loud. The idea should feel insane.
It kind of does.
I don’t do public vulnerability—or any kind for that matter. I don’t stand in front of people and say things that matter. And yet—
I look back down at the page, at the way she described him.
Strong. Disciplined. Someone who carried more than anyone realized.
I exhale quietly. If she could write that about me, then the least I can do is say it out loud, even if it terrifies me.
I close the book carefully and set it on the table. I run a hand through my hair. Now there’s nothing left to do but follow through.
My phone buzzes.
Melissa.
Melissa: When?
I glance at the book again and picture the stage I just walked through in my head.
Me: Tomorrow. 6 p.m.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Melissa: You’d better not hurt her.
A small huff of air leaves my chest.
Me: I promise.
I set the phone down and lean back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I’m finally not thinking about what I lost, but about what I need to get back—and exactly how I’m going to do it.
* * *
By the time I step onto the stage, the room is already full. It’s not packed, but there are enough bodies in chairs and people standing near the back with books in their hands, curiosity written all over their faces.
A low hum of conversation fills the space, soft and expectant. They don’t know what they’re here for.
Just a surprise reading, a new release. Something different for a Thursday night.
My hand tightens slightly around the book as I step behind the podium.
The microphone is already set. The lights are warmer up here … brighter. There’s nowhere to hide.
Good.
I glance out over the room once, scanning.
I see her near the back, just inside the door. Frozen.
She’s standing half turned, like she walked in mid-step and forgot how to move.
Her eyes are locked on me. Wide and shocked.
She looks like she hasn’t been sleeping. Guilt twists, sharp and immediate.
I hold her gaze for a second longer than I should, then force myself to look away.
If I don’t start this now, I won’t, and I didn’t come this far to stop. I adjust the mic slightly and clear my throat once.
The room quiets almost instantly.
“I’m not the author,” I say.
A ripple of confused laughter moves through the crowd.
Good. Let them feel off-balance.
“I also don’t usually do things like this.”
That gets another small reaction. I ignore it.
My focus is on one person. Even if I’m not looking at her right now.
“I read this book recently,” I continue. “And I got it wrong the first time.”
Silence settles deeper now.
“I thought it was about something being taken,” I say. “Something that didn’t belong to the person writing it.”
I pause and look out at the crowd. “I was wrong.”
The words land honestly with no way to soften them. I finally look back toward the back of the room.
She hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked away.
“I didn’t realize,” I continue, my voice lower now, “that it was about something being seen.”
The room is completely still.
I open the book and flip to the page I marked. The one I’ve read three times already. The one I can’t get out of my head.
I take a breath and start reading.
He thought strength looked like control, like silence, like carrying everything alone and never letting it slip. He thought it meant no one ever saw the cracks because if they did, everything would fall apart.
My voice steadies as I continue to read, the words settling into the room.
But I saw him differently.
I saw the way his hands tightened before he let something go. The way his jaw set when he was holding more than he should. The way his eyes softened when he thought no one was paying attention.
He wasn’t distant because he didn’t care. He was careful because he did.
He wasn’t cold. He was disciplined in a way most people would never understand—the kind of strength that didn’t ask for recognition, didn’t need validation … just endured.
A shift moves through the room now.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing about him. Not the control or the distance, but the fact that he carried everything so quietly that no one ever stopped to ask if he should have to.
My voice lowers just slightly.
I wanted to be the one who did because strength like his wasn’t something to fear. It was something to stand beside, to understand and to choose.
I close the book slowly. The sound is soft, final.
For a second, no one moves or even speaks.
Then someone exhales, another person shifts, and suddenly, the entire room breaks.
Applause.
Not loud at first, then building stronger. People wiping at their eyes and shaking their heads, like they didn’t expect to feel something like that tonight.
The sound fills the space, but I don’t hear most of it. I’m already stepping away from the podium, moving off the stage toward the back—toward her.
Because none of this—none of it—matters more than that.
She doesn’t move when I reach her. Not closer or farther away. She just stands there, eyes locked on mine, tears caught in her lashes, like she doesn’t know whether they’re allowed to fall.
Up close, it’s worse. The exhaustion. The quiet hurt she tried to hide from across the street. It’s all there.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her voice is soft.
I stop a few feet in front of her, close enough to reach.
“Fixing it,” I say.
Her brows pull together slightly. “That’s not how this works, Sawyer.”
“No?” I tilt my head a fraction. “Because I’m pretty sure this is exactly how this works.”
A breath escapes her, somewhere between disbelief and frustration.
“You don’t just stand up in front of a room full of people and read my book like that—”
“Your book?” I cut in quietly.
Her mouth snaps shut.
I take a step closer. “Kayla, I thought you wrote something that didn’t belong to you.”
My voice is composed, even though everything inside me is anything but. “I thought you took something from me.”
Her gaze drops for half a second, then comes back up.
“I did,” she says. The words land soft but firm. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve warned you. I shouldn’t have let you read it like that without knowing—”
“You didn’t take anything from me.”
She shakes her head immediately. “I hurt you.”
“Yeah,” I say.
That stops her. The honesty of it.
“I was hurt,” I continue. “And I reacted like someone who doesn’t know how to handle being seen.”
Her breath catches slightly.
“But that doesn’t mean you were wrong.”
Her eyes search my face, like she’s trying to figure out if this is real.
If I’m serious.
“If anything,” I add, my voice lowering, “you were the first person who got it right.”
Her lips part slightly.
“I didn’t write your story,” she says again, quieter now.
“I know.”
“I changed everything that could—”
“I know that too.”
She hesitates. “You still felt exposed.”
I nod once. “Because I wasn’t ready for someone to see me like that.”
The words sit between us.
“I’ve spent years making sure no one does.”
Her expression softens just a little.
“But you did,” I say. “And instead of running, you stayed.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “That doesn’t change the fact that I should’ve told you.”
A small breath of a laugh leaves me. “There it is.”
She blinks. “What?”
“The part where you’re going to keep taking the blame, even when it’s not all yours.”
Her brows knit together. “I’m not—”
“You are.” I step closer again, closing the distance this time. “Kayla, if you want to be stubborn about it, fine.”
Her lips press together as she fights a reaction.
“You should’ve told me,” I admit.
That lands because it matters and it’s true.
“But that doesn’t change what you wrote,” I continue. “Or what it meant.”
Her voice is softer now. “What did it mean?”
I hold her gaze. “Everything.”
The word hangs there.
“You didn’t write something that exposed me,” I say. “You wrote something that understood me.”
Her breath catches again.
“And then you walked away from it. From the best thing you’ve ever written.”
Her eyes flicker. “You don’t know that—”
“I do.” I nod once. “Because I read it.”
A small silence settles between us.
She shakes her head again, quieter this time. “I deceived you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I hurt you.”
“Yeah,” I say again, softer this time. “And I hurt you back.”
Her eyes fill slightly, but she doesn’t look away.
“I told you that you used me,” I continue. “That you took something that wasn’t yours.”
Hearing the words out loud makes the guilt worse.
“How did that feel?” I ask quietly.
She exhales shakily. “Like I lost you.”
The answer hits harder than anything else. I step the last inch closer. Close enough now that I can see every detail in her expression.
“Yeah,” I say softly, “that’s on me.”
A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away.
“I would’ve walked away from anything for you,” she says.
“I know.”
“I did.”
“I know,” I repeat.
Her breath shakes slightly. “And you still—”
“I didn’t know.” I hold her gaze. “I didn’t know you wrote a love story.”
Her brows pull together. “A what?”
“A love story,” I say again. “About a man you saw better than he sees himself.”
Her lips part. “But you said—”
“I was wrong.”
The words come easier now because they’re not just words anymore. They’re truth.
“I thought you wrote something that took from me.” I shake my head slightly. “You wrote something that gave me something I hadn’t even known I was missing.”
She stares at me, still trying to catch up.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers.
“I do,” I say. “For the first time … I do.” I let that settle. “Because I love you.”
The words land between us. No hesitation or desire to take them back.
Her breath catches sharply while her body goes still, like everything in her just stopped trying to brace for the worst.
“What?” she breathes.
“I love you,” I repeat. “I didn’t realize how much until I thought I lost you.”
Her eyes fill again. This time, she doesn’t fight it.
“I don’t want a version of my life where you’re not in it,” I continue. “Not the quiet. Not the chaos. Not even the way you treat my refrigerator like it’s a personal challenge.”
A small, broken laugh escapes her.
“I’m serious,” I say. “You don’t get to walk away from me that easily.”
She shakes her head slightly, still overwhelmed. “You told me to leave.”
“I made a mistake.” I step closer. Close enough now that there’s no space left between us. “And I’m done letting my fear make those decisions.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “You think reading my book in front of a room full of strangers fixes your fears though?”
“No,” I say. “But it’s just the beginning.”
Her eyes search mine again, looking for doubt, but I know she doesn’t find it.
“And what happens next?” she asks softly.
I don’t even hesitate. “This.”
I reach for her slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t.
My hand settles at her waist, steady and certain, pulling her just slightly closer.
“This is my reckoning,” I say quietly while her breath catches again. “With you.” I continue, “I’m not walking away from that.”
She exhales shakily, and then finally—finally—she leans into me.
And everything that’s felt wrong suddenly clicks back into place. Exactly where it should’ve been all along.
THE END