Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chris hadn’t touched his soda. It sat sweating on the table, ignored, while Don and the other union reps clinked glasses and patted each other on the back like they’d just won a championship.
They were thrilled. While this thing was far from over, the new brief laid out a compelling case for dismissal. Perhaps it was strong enough to stop a grand jury from even being formed. He should’ve been grateful. Should’ve joined in the celebration.
Instead, he sat in his stuffy suit, nodding at the right moments, chewing through tasteless bites of a sandwich he couldn’t remember ordering. His stomach rolled the entire time. Every laugh felt like it came from underwater. He coasted through the meal like a ghost.
It wasn’t until he was back at the townhouse, alone and stripped of pretense, that the weight of it truly settled. At first, he just stood there, keys still in hand, door shut behind him, the distant hum of the fridge the only sound.
The suit jacket landed across a chair, the tie somewhere near the entry table. He rolled his sleeves up, drifted into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and shut it again without seeing what was inside.
Back in the living room, he sat. Stood. Paced. Every silence pressed in on him, louder than noise. The walls felt alive, breathing, inching closer with each step.
He flicked the TV on. Sports highlights muttered in the background. He shut it off again. The silence roared louder.
He rubbed a hand down his face, then dragged it over his hair. His mind was a mess of contradictions, flipping between emotional states like a malfunctioning light switch. He felt gratitude, fury, regret, admiration, but most of all, betrayal.
Isabela may have just saved his life, or at least come damn close.
There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind that the defense she’d read would shift the odds in his favor.
He could see it on Don’s face. In the SPOG lawyers’ high-fives.
Even in Marcus’s nod through the video feed, that almost-smile that had felt like victory.
Yet all he could remember was the way Isabela had felt like his safe place when he had confided in her.
How she looked today as she’d told his story, his real story, the one he only ever dared to speak in darkness.
The one that kept him up nights and made him question if he was even fit to wear the badge.
He hadn’t given her permission. That mattered more than he could explain.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her lips moving as she described the PTSD. The boy and his mother. The way Isabela ripped the scab off his emotional wounds. He knew why she did it. She believed in him. She wanted to save him. It still felt like a kick in the ribs.
He thought of the stricken look in her eyes afterward, as if she’d been the one betrayed. Maybe in some twisted way, she had. She’d risked her career for him, exposed secrets he never gave her permission to use, and stood there pleading with nothing but her eyes and a broken voice.
His ex-wife Kim had never looked at him like that.
Not when he came home drunk. Not when he didn’t come home at all.
Not even when she’d told him it was over, that she was packing her bags and going to her parents’.
Their divorce had been a mutual shrug. A slow unraveling neither of them had the energy to stop.
But Isabela? That woman was emotion personified. She fought and loved with all her heart, and he’d seen every ounce of it aimed at him. It still wasn’t enough to stop the hurt.
He stood in the middle of his living room, completely unmoored. He scrubbed at his face again, harder this time. If he stayed here, he’d go insane. Crawl right out of his skin. Punch a wall. Call her. He couldn’t do any of those things.
Instead, he grabbed his keys and called the only person who had always known what to do with him when he didn’t know what to do with himself. He called his big sister.
Beth’s voice was like a balm. “Come for dinner. Sophie will want to see you.”
That was how he ended up parked outside his sister’s rancher in Loyal Heights. It was just far enough from his own neighborhood to breathe, but too close to Isabela’s family home to feel comfortable. He told himself not to think of her tonight. So far, he was failing miserably.
The porch light was on. Tulips swayed in the front garden. The little blue house hadn’t changed in years.
He barely made it to the steps before the door flew open and Sophie was launching herself into his arms. She was fourteen and as gangly as a colt. Somehow, she still managed to hit him square in the chest with a hug so fierce it nearly unspooled him.
“You came,” she said, muffled against his shirt.
“Wouldn’t miss it, kiddo,” he rasped.
They moved into the kitchen like old times. Sophie chattered nonstop while they shucked corn, her voice rising with excitement as she recounted school gossip and JV basketball drama.
They set the table together, then perched at the kitchen island while Beth cooked, flicking glances over her shoulder to make sure he was okay.
To his shock, Sophie didn’t skirt around the drama surrounding his attendance at her games like he’d expected. She charged at it head-on.
“I told the team you’re coming to the next game. So, you better show up.”
Chris blinked hard, staring at the table. “Yeah? You sure that’s okay?”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks. Plus, you owe me. I only dropped twelve points last game. My shooting was totally off. Probably because my shooting coach has been MIA,” she narrowed her eyes at him in jest.
The lump in his throat was painful. He coughed, covered it with a smile. “Twelve points, huh? Sounds like someone needs extra drills.”
“Sunday morning?” she grinned.
“Done deal.”
While they ate, the conversation moved from basketball player stats to playoff predictions.
He argued the Denver Nuggets would win the championship.
She was a die-hard Oklahoma City Thunder fan.
Beth chimed in with sarcastic commentary about “overpaid, oversized men in short shorts,” and Chris let himself laugh for the first time all day.
Somewhere in that laughter, he thought of Isabela.
He pictured her sitting beside Sophie, rolling her eyes at his coaching tips, offering Sophie even better ones.
He imagined how easily she would’ve fit into this kitchen, into this life.
How Sophie would adore her. How Beth would quietly size her up and when she passed muster, welcome her with open arms. His stomach lurched when he acknowledged that would never happen now.
Chris stayed until Sophie began yawning through her argument on why Isaiah Hartenstein was really the greatest center in the NBA. Beth waved her off to bed and handed Chris a Tupperware of leftovers.
“Are you sure you’re okay, little bro? You look like you lost your favorite toy.”
God, Beth had no idea how accurate that statement was.
“I’m fine. Just an exhausting day. An exhausting few months,” Chris laughed bitterly.
After promising to come to Sophie’s next game and to stay for dinner next Thursday, he stepped out into the cool spring air.
The sky was soft and dusky, pale clouds sweeping above the rooftops.
He filled his lungs, let the breeze hit his face.
He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t entirely miserable either.
For tonight, the laughter of his niece was enough. Tomorrow, the silence would return.