Chapter 10 Spencer
TEN
SPENCER
I stayed in France for nearly ten months.
What began as a forced recovery turned into something more—an unintentional sabbatical, a chance to strip my life down to its bare parts and see what was left.
I spent my days in physical therapy and occupational rehab. Learned how to move again. Breathe again. Exist without pain as my primary reality.
Back home, my enterprises held steady—thanks to an airtight leadership team and the kind of infrastructure designed to function without me, at least for a while.
Rumors swirled. Investors speculated. A few headlines guessed at burnout or a quiet acquisition, but the full extent of my injuries never surfaced.
That was by design.
Vulnerability and valuation rarely play well together.
I’ve recently returned to Boston. And reentering my own life has been harder than I thought it would be.
I’m finally back on a bike. That alone feels like a miracle.
But my shoulder still isn’t right. Some days, it tightens up and refuses to rotate, no matter how many stretches, bands, or yoga routines I try.
And my left knee—don’t even get me started. It locks at the worst possible times. I don’t know if it will ever be what it was.
I told myself I wouldn’t reach out to Rhea until I was fully recovered.
Until I could show up with something to offer. Until I could be with her—really be with her—not wincing every time I move or leaning on a goddamn walker.
Not that that’s all I wanted from her.
It wasn’t just about sex or attraction—I wanted to be in her life. To laugh with her, argue with her, build something together. And that’s what scared me most.
So I waited.
I made myself wait.
And now it’s been fifteen months since her eyes met mine in that ballroom. Fifteen months since she danced into my life—literally—and I thought, I want more of this woman.
I have her work number.
That much I kept from her grant application. But odds are she’s not there anymore. If she followed through on her plan—and I’d bet anything she did—she’s in France by now. Writing poems in a corner café. Losing herself in a new life.
There was a time, early in my recovery, when I let myself wonder if she’d find me.
I never admitted it—not even to myself—but I think some part of me hoped she’d hear about the crash and come looking. That she’d show up at the hospital, soft-voiced and steady, and I could tell her everything I hadn’t yet had a chance to say.
A fairytale. I know.
But now that I’m back home, I do what anyone would do.
I look her up.
LinkedIn comes up first. Professional headshot. Still lists the Maplewick Library System as her employer. That could mean anything. Most people don’t update that stuff when they’re off chasing a dream.
I try Facebook next. It takes a few tries—there are more Rhea Sinclairs in the world than I expected—but I find her. Her profile’s private, so all I can see is her name and her cover photo.
But that’s enough.
Because in her arms? She’s cradling a baby.
A newborn girl. Tiny, pink-skinned, curled against her chest. And the resemblance—God. It’s unmistakable. Same mouth. Same chin. Same gentle curve of the cheek.
She looks just like her mother.
My throat tightens. I grip the sides of my laptop.
Fifteen months.
She must have met someone else.
Maybe she was already with someone.
Maybe she was never mine to miss.
It doesn’t matter. She’s someone’s mother now.
Someone’s partner, maybe. I’ve missed my shot.
I slam the laptop shut. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel everything. The pain. The recovery. The months of being silent when I should’ve reached out. The way her memory carried me through the worst of it.
And as much as I want to punch a hole in the wall, what I feel instead is a tear running down my cheek.
The next morning, I’m nursing a black coffee in my office when Gina taps her knuckles on the doorframe and shoots one more arrow at me.
“We’ve been organizing some visits to grant recipient sites,” she says, breezing in with her tablet. “PR opportunities, press-ready photo ops. Thought I’d check in—see if you want to be included.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. Better to stay close to home. Still playing catch-up.”
She pauses just long enough for me to look up.
“Not even the visit to see Cinderella’s project?” she asks, almost too casually.
I meet her eyes and hold them.
“No,” I say quietly. “Especially not that one.”
I know myself. I can take a lot of pain.
But that—
Seeing her.
Seeing what might’ve been and knowing I’d missed my chance –
That would break me in half.