Chapter 49 In My Feelings
In My Feelings
August
The sun’s sinking low, bleeding gold over the driving range. Long shadows stretch across the turf. I’ve been standing at the tee too long, driver locked in my grip, the rubber wrap biting into my palms. The ball just sits there. Still. Waiting.
Same as me.
Everything in me is wound tight, Harlee’s voice still lodged under my ribs, sharp as glass.
Another thwack carries from down the line. I don’t look. My swing’s wrong anyway.
“Come on, man. Let it go.” Kelley slides in beside me, clapping my shoulder like he can knock the tension loose. His smirk’s in place, the one that says he’s clocked every crack in my composure. “You’re swinging like you’re blindfolded at a kid’s birthday party. And drunk.”
I scoff and shrug him off. “It doesn’t make sense. How could she even consider that job?” I take the shot too hard. The ball skitters forward ten pathetic feet.
My groan is louder than the hit.
“Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn’t mean August should,” Monroe says, calm thinning at the edges.
Kelley opens his mouth—probably to be disgusting—and I cut him off with a look. “Watch it.”
I tee up again, swing, and send the ball veering into the rough.
Perfect.
“We already know you weren’t Harlee’s biggest fan,” I snap.
Kelley lifts his hands, innocent as a liar.
“Relax. She’s smart, funny, beautiful, I get it.
” He gestures grandly at himself. “I just don’t see why you’re letting her stress you out.
You could have your pick. And sure, you’re not as devastatingly handsome as me, but that whole Dominican immigrant thing works for you. ”
I flip him off. He beams like I’ve complimented him.
“You just need to get back out there,” he adds. “I’ll even be your wingman for the journey of sexual rediscovery.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Monroe says. “He wouldn’t know genuine connection if it slapped him in the face and called him daddy.”
Kelley scoffs. “It’s not like August can keep this going. What does she expect, for him to fly back and forth every weekend?”
“He could.” Monroe shrugs. “I’ve done it. Half my year’s on the road.”
“That’s because you’ve got a forty-million-dollar contract,” I shoot back. “Anybody dating you knows your job comes first.”
A flicker crosses Monroe’s eyes. Quick. Gone. “True. But that’s the cost. You communicate. You sacrifice. And most women don’t want a man who’s gone that much.”
“Exactly,” Kelley says, like he’s solved it. “So it’s cleaner to let her go build her career while you run the empire. Win-win.”
Monroe shakes his head. “That’s not my point.”
I rake a hand over my jaw, irritation buzzing. “Why is everything about sex with you?”
Kelley grins. “Because besides money, what’s better?”
Monroe exhales slowly, like he’s trying not to body-check him. “Long distance isn’t ideal. But if you don’t want to break up or control her, it’s an option.”
Harlee’s laugh flashes in my head. Her eyes when she talks about her dreams. The ache of losing her versus the shame of being the reason she stays small.
“Long distance?” I scoff, but it comes out thinner than I want. “You and Camille ended because of the road.”
Monroe’s jaw tightens. “No. We ended because I fucked up. Five years gone over a woman whose name I can’t remember.”
Kelley lines up another shot without looking guilty. “The best kind.”
I stare downrange, throat tight. “I don’t get it. She could do the same work here. Why move twenty-five hundred miles away?”
The words taste selfish the second they leave my mouth. But the thought of her leaving still clamps around my chest.
I swing hard. The ball sails clean and far.
No relief.
Monroe steps closer, his shadow crossing the tee like a warning. “Ah. I see what this is really about.”
I bristle. “It’s about her throwing away our future for something she’s not ready for.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I’m looking out for her,” I bite out. “We were going to figure out her path together.”
Kelley and Monroe trade a look that scrapes my nerves raw.
“What?”
Monroe’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder. Not comforting. Anchoring. “This isn’t about you.”
“I know that.”
His gaze doesn’t move. “Then take yourself out of her decision.”
“Obviously I—”
“August.”
The way he says my name, it’s not a reprimand. It’s a door shutting.
He gives me that faint, infuriating half-smile. “Sometimes it’s not about the words. You’ve gotta read between what she’s not saying.”
Tuesday
The private gym in my building is all chrome, mirrors, and eucalyptus trying—and failing—to hide the musk of sweat. A handful of residents are scattered around, headphones in, lost in their own grind.
Good. I need to disappear in plain sight.
I head straight for the free weights. The barbell’s cool in my hands, soild.
Just lift. Don’t think about Harlee. Don’t think about L.A. Just. Fucking. Lift.
Halfway through my third set, the door hisses open. Monroe walks in—six-four of easy confidence that makes you want to dap him up and deck him at the same time.
“You look like you’re lifting the weight of the world,” he calls.
“Funny you should say that.” I rack the bar with a clang, metal hitting metal. “Feels like I’m dragging my life with it.” I eye him. “Shouldn’t you be at the training facility?”
“Was. Needed another session.” He taps his temple. “Stuff to work through. You too, I’m guessing. Still thinking about yo girl?”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “Seems like all I do.” I nod at him. “What’s got you doubling up?”
“Same thing.”
“Women,” we say together, like it’s a curse.
I lift a brow. “You dump Ariel?”
He grimaces. “After the gala? Yeah. She was planning our wedding after one night.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
“She was full of herself,” he adds, dropping his bag. “Whole time I’m thinking, what did I get myself into?”
“Among other things,” I mutter, remembering her grinding on half the guest list.
He shakes his head. “It’s hard to find that spark. Think you’ve got something real, then it’s gone.”
“I know.” Harlee’s face flashes through my mind. The ache sharpens. I load more weight, chasing a different kind of burn.
“So what happened with Camille?” I ask. “You were solid, then suddenly you’re at the gala with Ariel.”
His grin fades. “My own version of, its complicated.”
“I figured. But talk to me.”
He stares past me. Monroe’s always been the quiet one—Kelley’s the chaos, I’m somewhere in between—but his calm carries weight.
“One minute I’m celebrating the Super Bowl, next she’s tossing my shit out,” he says.
I raise a brow. “Missing some details, my guy.”
He exhales. “Partying with rookies. Some girls came by. Things looked bad. Word got back to Camille. I wasn’t cheating—but it didn’t matter. I tried everything. She’s done.”
“Why keep it to yourself?”
“Because I was embarrassed. I love her. And I don’t need Kelley telling me I’m free from my ‘ball and chain.’”
“Fair.” Kelley’s not exactly the patron saint of restraint.
Monroe’s voice drops. “I’d give anything to be with her. But she won’t talk to me. Every woman since feels empty.”
I know that feeling too well. “Yeah.”
“But you’ve still got a chance,” he says.
“I don’t know. Harlee won’t answer. She was supposed to give EchoHouse an answer yesterday. Nothing since she stormed out last week.”
He considers it. “Try a different approach. Ask her to meet you somewhere neutral. Lunch.”
My stomach twists. “What if she doesn’t show?”
“Then you deal with it. But drop the ego—it’s in your way.”
I frown. “See what, exactly?”
“That the only way out is through.”
I smirk. “One of these days, I’ll understand you.”
He laughs, clapping my shoulder. “Where’s the fun in that? Now get back under the bar—we’ve both got work to do
Wednesday
The café hummed with the midday rush, all warm clinking and chatter that didn’t belong to the world I was in.
Harlee sat across from me, eyes fixed anywhere but mine.
She stirred her water, condensation sliding down the glass.
I wanted to reach across the table, still her hand—but my fingers stayed curled in my lap.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said, steadier than I felt. “About last week. About us.”
Her gaze lifted for half a second—just enough to give me hope—then slid away.
“I get it. You’ve got this opportunity in Burbank, and I respect that. I know it’s big.” I swallowed. “But I need to be honest, Harlee.”
She folded the edge of her napkin into smaller and smaller corners, like she could shrink the conversation out of existence.
“Why do you want to hold me back?” The words were barely a whisper. “What do you want from me, August?”
It should’ve been easy—you. But love wasn’t leverage.
“You think I’m trying to hold you back?” I leaned in. “Of course I want you to chase your dreams. But we—” My voice cracked. “We matter too.”
Her eyes snapped up. For a second, I saw the girl who once told me I was her home. “I don’t want you to hold me back,” she said, each word a step farther away. “I just don’t want you guilt-tripping me into staying. I worked for this. This is mine.”
“You think this is about guilt?” A short laugh slipped out. “It’s about us. About what we’ve built. You can’t tell me walking away is the only option.”
She blinked hard. “You really don’t get it. You’re making this about you.”
“I’m making it about us,” I shot back. “You can’t just decide the rest of our lives without me.”
Her voice dropped, still sharp. “I am considering us. But I’m not going to let you—or this—keep me from what I’ve worked for. This is my choice, August. Mine.”
The floor shifted under my feet. “Feels like you’ve been packing your bags since the day I met you.”
She flinched—barely. “And you,” she said, voice shaking now, “want a version of me that stays here for you.”
“That’s not fair,” I said, already knowing how thin it sounded.
The café faded to static. My heartbeat was the only thing left.