Chapter Thirty-Seven
EMOTIONAL DAMAGE AND PINOT GRIGIO
Andi
Cole’s apartment smells like disinfectant and the overly floral candle Kate lit to make it feel less like a hospital. She’s fluffing pillows like her life depends on it, while Cole mutters from the couch, already done with being fussed over.
“Do you want another blanket?” she asks, already draping one over his legs.
“I’m good, Mom,” he mutters, shifting just enough to wince. “Damn that thing weighs a hundred pounds.”
“It’s weighted. It’s supposed to calm you.”
“I’m already calm.”
“You’re cranky.”
“I’m injured.”
Kate rolls her eyes and turns toward the kitchen. “I’m making you tea.”
Cole looks at me like he’s being held hostage.
“You’re really thriving here,” I say, forcing a smile.
“I was a great patient in the hospital,” he insists, shifting again. “Now I’m just a prisoner in my own home.”
“You’re lucky you have people who love you,” I say, grabbing my purse off the counter.
“Wait—where are you going?” he asks, frowning as I slide my keys into my coat pocket.
I hesitate. “Home.”
His brows draw together. “You’re not staying?”
“No,” I say lightly. Too lightly. “Figured you were in good hands. You’ve got tea and supervision and approximately four dozen throw pillows on your lap.”
He blinks. “But… we could hang out. Watch reality TV. Order that awful Thai you pretended to hate but devoured last time.”
I smile at him. It hurts. “Not tonight.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at me. And I hate the way his face softens. The way he tilts his head a little, searching me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I lie.
I kiss his cheek—quick, too fast—and walk out before I can hear him say anything else.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
I barely make it to my car before I’m sobbing.
My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, keys still dangling from the ignition, my breath catching on the edge of panic.
Because everything’s changed.
I almost lost him. And it broke something inside of me.
I don’t know how to love someone like this again.
I can’t stop thinking about the way Cole looked at me—hopeful. Hurt. Like he didn’t understand why I was leaving when everything was finally okay.
Except it’s not.
I don’t even realize I’m calling Shay until her voice comes through the speaker.
“Hey, what’s up?”
My throat tightens. “Can you come over?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course. I’ll grab a bottle of wine and head that way.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re on my couch, two wine glasses on the coffee table and my legs tucked under a blanket. Shay’s kicked off her boots and settled in beside me, but her eyes haven’t left me once.
“Okay,” she says finally. “What’s going on?”
I run a hand through my hair and stare at the ceiling. “I think I’m going to break up with him.”
She blinks. “Okay. I’m gonna need a little more info than that.”
I grab my wine glass and take a fortifying sip of pinot grigio. “Because I can’t handle this. I can’t go through losing someone again.”
“You didn’t lose him.”
“I almost did. And that was enough of a wake up call.”
She exhales. “You’re allowed to be scared, Andi. But walking away from someone you love just so you don’t have to feel scared? That’s not protecting yourself. That’s punishing both of you.”
I don’t even argue with her about using the L-word, I just wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie. “I don’t know how to do this, Shay.”
Shay leans forward and sets her wine down. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. But you don’t get to run just because it’s hard.”
“Brennan’s funeral is in a few days,” I say quietly. “And I keep thinking… what if it had been Cole? What if it is one day?”
Shay reaches for my hand. “Then you love him while you can. You don’t pre-break your own heart to save yourself the trouble later.”
I cry harder then—shoulders shaking, wine forgotten, words stuck.
And she just squeezes my knee and lets me fall apart.
Because that’s what Shay does.
She shows up.
Even when I don’t know what I need.
My phone buzzes.
It’s Cole.
You okay? it says.
I stare at the screen.
I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I don’t trust myself not to answer everything he isn’t asking.
He’s healing. Slowly. He’s still in pain, still sleeping more than he’s awake most days, still flinching when he laughs too hard.
But I can’t let myself think about him just yet. I have to think about me—about what my heart can take and what it can’t.
Beef hops up onto the couch beside me and noses his head under my hand, like he knows something’s wrong.
I press my cheek to his soft fur and close my eyes.