Chapter 16
The morning after is always the hardest. Not the night, because at least the night hides the ache. Morning makes it visible. The light hits the truth.
The world tilts.
Not in the cinematic way, not slow or graceful. It just… falls sideways.
Blake’s words still echo in my head, venom threaded through honey, and no matter how many times I blink, I can’t shake the sound of his voice. That smug tone. That familiarity that feels like a bruise I keep pressing just to prove I can still feel it.
I thought I was done breaking. Turns out, there are always smaller pieces left to shatter into.
I make it as far as the bathroom before my hands start shaking.
The mirror is merciless, mascara smudged, lips pale, eyes wide and wrong. I look like the ghost of someone who used to believe in forever.
My chest tightens until I can’t breathe. My lungs forget how. My body forgets how. I grip the sink, knuckles white, the porcelain biting back. Mid panic attack, when I’m sure I might actually be dying, my phone starts pinging, pinging, pinging each alert like a knife to the ribs.
Hey.
You.
Hi.
You there???
I have a plan... You and me. A picnic. In a park. You bring the chaos; I’ll bring the sandwiches.
The phone buzzes again beside my face, that familiar thrum like a tired heartbeat.
I don’t have the strength to answer.
Blake, again relentless.
A storm in my notifications.
Message after message.
And still, not one reply to mine.
Each time Pandora gets a new message from him, I send one as Penn.
Desperate. Sad. Human.
“I miss you. Can we talk?”
“I need you. The gas won’t ignite. The shower’s cold. The oven isn’t playing the game. Maybe the gas is out?”
“Hello, damsel in distress here…your wife. AKA me!!!”
“Blake? Oi. You there? Hellllloooooo. God’s sake, Blake! How do I change the gas bottle? The mail guy at work Dane is his name he said it could be that when I asked him”. Still nothing, even after that.
God, I thought he’d at least bite at that. But no. Zilch. From the man I shared my whole fucking life with.
This app is ridiculous. Off-the-charts absurd. I don’t know how people actually build lives through this thing all dopamine, no depth.
I make notes on my pad, trying to stitch together fragments of my story, dodging pick-up lines that make my uterus curl in on itself.
Like this gem from cam69andioweyou1:
“It’s not even Halloween yet, and I’m dressed up as the love of your life.”
Or this poetic tragedy:
“Do you believe in love at first sight? Because you look like love, and I have fallen.”
And then the straight-up criminal:
“I feel like you and I would look good in bed naked together.”
One percent of me laughs at the sheer audacity. The other ninety-nine weeps for humanity.
It’s tragic all these people swiping through curated pixels, chasing chemical highs, calling it love. They’ve forgotten the butterflies. Forgotten the quiet hand-holding at midnight. Forgotten the art of finding something real in the dark just to carry it into the light.
What I had with Blake was real. Ninety-nine percent perfect. Maybe he’s just lost in the fog. Maybe he needs a lighthouse. And maybe that’s still me.
So, I do what I do best I persist.
After hitting send on a message to Blake, I switch back to Dane. The only man who seems to actually see me.
I text Dane
‘Can you come over? 2996 Ocean Drive. I think the gas is empty, but I have no idea how to change it.’
‘You know, I already have your address saved, Rapunzel. You didn’t need to send it.’
‘Humour me. Maybe I just like the idea of you knowing where to find me.’
‘Dangerous thing to say to the mail guy. What if I show up with a screwdriver and a hero complex?’
‘Then you’ll fit right in.’
Five minutes later, I step onto the back porch, barefoot. The sky’s low and lazy, the sea kissing the horizon in that way that makes everything ache. Waves whisper against the shore, and I close my eyes, letting the salt and sound soak into me.
Then—buzz.
Two new messages.
One from Dane
‘?? Oh, damsel, I sure hope so.’
And one from Blake
‘Hello stranger. Thought you’d run off with my heart.’
The cider I’ve just lifted to my lips catches in my throat. The burn of it collides with the burn in my chest.
Blake (again)
‘Call 0800 559 449—that’s the gas company. Also, Penn, you need to sign the papers.’
That last line slices clean through me.
Sign the papers. Like it’s that simple. Like ten years of our lives can be folded, filed, and forgotten with a single stroke of a pen.
‘After ten years, how could you be so cold?’
I drop the phone. My hands are shaking again as I walk down the garden path, the long grass brushing my calves.
I don’t stop until I reach her little gate the tiny seaside cemetery where my daughter lies. I fall to my knees and sob. For what’s lost. For what still lingers. For what refuses to stay buried.
I don’t know how long I cry there, maybe minutes, maybe hours.
By the time I return, the sky’s painted in burnt oranges and soft pinks. The sun kisses the sea like it’s saying goodbye.
Inside, the smell hits me first garlic, basil, red wine. And him.
Dane.
He stands at my stove like he belongs here, my nana’s apron tied around him, too small and impossibly endearing. He’s humming something under his breath, stirring one pot while tending to another.
Two glasses of red breathe on the table. A salad. Warm bread wrapped in a tea towel.
I move forward and wrap my arms around him from behind, burying my face in his back. Tears spill freely, soaking into the cotton of his shirt.
“You have no idea what this means to me,” I whisper.
His hand finds mine warm, steady, real. “Take a seat, Rapunzel. I’ll dish it up.”
So, I do. I sit cross-legged in the chair, arms wrapped around my knees, watching this beautiful man move through my space like he’s always been part of it.
When I taste the food, it’s like being held. Each bite was a warm hug I didn’t know I needed.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask, wine-flushed and too comfortable.
He grins. “This? Nothing. My grandmother taught me.”
“So, you’re modest and talented,” I tease. “You’re going to ruin men for me.”
He winks. “That’s the plan.”
Later, when he starts to clean up, I catch his wrist. “You don’t have to.”
He holds my gaze. Doesn’t move.
“I feel guilty,” I admit, voice barely there.
“For what?”
“This.”
“We haven’t done anything.”
“I know. I mean fuck. I don’t even know what I mean.”
“Guilt’s a funny thing, Penn,” he murmurs. “Usually it’s fed by pleasure, not laced with pain.”
He steps back, his fingers trailing mine, and I swear the air hums in his absence.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, trying to clear the fog. My reflection stares back bruised, worn, unrecognisable.
“Write the story,” I whisper to her. “The way your grandmother would.”
When I return, he’s standing by the window, hands in his pockets, framed by the last light of day.
“I have to move through this,” I tell him softly. “But I don’t know if I do it alone... or with you.”
He wraps his arms around me from behind, our eyes meeting in the glass. “I only came because I heard you crying,” he says, voice thick. “I didn’t mean to... but when I saw you out there, broken in front of her grave, I couldn’t leave.”
He hesitates. “He’s so cold. And yet, he’s the love of your life. I see him in you in everything here. But I can wait. If that’s what you need.”
He kisses the back of my head, soft as a promise.
And when I turn around, he’s gone. Only the scent of him remains, warm, familiar, a dream laced in hope.