Chapter 8
SAbrINA
The next morning, I woke up alone. Trace had left early to open the hardware store. I’d heard his truck start before dawn, and cold space next to me felt like a preview of what was coming.
I couldn't put it off any longer.
Nico had cornered me outside the post office yesterday.
His questions were more pointed, more specific.
He knew something. Maybe not everything, but enough to make my palms sweat and my heart race.
It was only a matter of time before he put the pieces together, and when he did, I wanted Trace to hear the truth from me first.
I got to the shop and made coffee with shaking hands, rehearsing the words I'd been practicing for days. Trace, I need to tell you something. About the Ex-List. I wrote it. I'm the one who called you The Heartbreaker.
Even in my head, they sounded pathetic.
I tried calling him around noon, but it went straight to voicemail.
It was probably for the best. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep pretending, and I wasn’t going to tell him over the phone.
By the time evening rolled around, I'd worn a path across the shop from pacing and had drunk enough coffee to fuel a cruise ship for an around the world voyage.
When his truck finally pulled into my driveway at eight-thirty, I felt like I might throw up.
He knocked instead of using his key, which should have been the first clue that something had shifted.
When I opened the door, his expression was neutral, but there was a wariness in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before.
"Hey," I said, stepping aside to let him in.
"We need to talk." He didn't move from the doorway. He didn't reach for me either. It was over. He knew. And he’d never forgive me.
My stomach dropped but I tried to stay calm. "About what?"
"About whatever you've been hiding." His voice was full of control, but I could sense the anger underneath the surface. "About why you look guilty every time that podcaster's name comes up. About why you've been acting like you're waiting for the world to end."
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly ice-cold. "Come in. Please."
He hesitated, then stepped inside, but he didn't sit down when I gestured toward the couch. Instead, he stood in the middle of my living room like he was ready to bolt at any second.
"I ran into Nico today," he said. "He seemed to think I'd find it interesting to know that Gillian admitted to adding Ridge’s name to the Ex-List.”
The blood drained from my face. "Trace—"
“He also mentioned that according to his research, you and Gillian used to be pretty close but hadn’t really been seen together much since the Ex-List came out.
” His brows knit together, but his expression didn’t change.
“I haven’t been keeping tabs on your friends, but it does seem strange that you haven’t mentioned Gillian at all since we’ve been hanging out again. ”
I didn’t know what to say. He was right.
Gillian and I did have a falling out when the Ex-List suddenly showed up online.
She thought I’d leaked it and I’d accused her of doing the same.
For a split second I wondered if she had any idea that Nellie was the one who posted it.
But none of that mattered. The only thing that did was telling Trace the truth.
My mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Come on, Sabrina.” His eyes never left mine. "Want to tell me why a podcaster who’s only spent a couple of weeks in this town knows more about you than I do?"
This was it. The moment I'd been dreading and putting off, even though it had always been inevitable.
"Sit down," I whispered.
"I'd rather stand."
I took a shaky breath and tried to steady my voice enough to speak. "The Ex-List... I wrote it."
The words hung in the air between us like a grenade waiting to explode. Trace went completely still, his expression shifting from that controlled anger to looking like I’d just ripped his heart right out of his chest.
"You what?"
"Gillian and I wrote it together. We were drinking wine, complaining about dating in this town, and nursing our broken hearts. We just... we made a list. It was supposed to be private. A joke between friends." My voice cracked. "We never meant for anyone to see it."
He stared at me, and I watched as understanding dawned in his eyes. Not just about the list, but about everything… why I'd been so jumpy around the podcaster, why I'd been acting strange all week, why I'd looked guilty every time the subject came up.
"You wrote it," he repeated, his voice flat. "You called me The Heartbreaker."
"Yes."
"And you've been lying to me about it for months. Even this past week, when we were—" He gestured vaguely at the space between us. "When I thought we were being honest with each other."
"I wanted to tell you—"
"When?" The word came out harsh. "When were you planning to tell me, Sabrina? Before or after I made a complete fool of myself by telling you how much I love you?”
A sliver of hope glimmered through the darkness. I reached for it. “You love me?”
“I loved what I thought we had.” He funneled a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”
“Don't say that." Tears burned my eyes. "What we have is real. This—us—it's not about the list."
"Isn't it?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You wrote that I was a heartbreaker who couldn't commit, couldn't stick around. And then you what? You decided to test the theory? See if you could get me to prove you right?"
"No! That's not—” I stepped toward him, but he backed away. "Trace, please listen to me. I wrote that list because I was hurt and angry and I thought you didn't want me. I thought you'd never see me as anything more than your safe, reliable friend.”
"So you decided to humiliate me publicly instead of just talking to me?"
"I didn't mean for it to be published. Nellie found a copy at the café and thought—" I stopped. It didn't matter what Nellie thought. The damage was done. I was the one at fault.
"How long have you known?" he asked.
"Known what?"
"That it was published. That the whole town was talking about it. How long did you watch me deal with the fallout while knowing you were the one responsible?"
I closed my eyes. "From the beginning."
"Damn." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Do you have any idea what that was like for me? Having people look at me like I was some kind of lowlife?”
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, Trace. I wanted to tell you, but I was scared—"
"Scared of what? That I'd be angry? That I'd hate you?
" He shook his head. "You know what the worst part is?
I wouldn't have cared about the list. I would have been hurt, yeah, but I would have understood.
What I can't understand is why you let me believe for months that some anonymous person had it out for me. "
"Because I was a coward," I said, the words barely audible. "Because I was terrified of losing you again.”
"Again?" His voice went flat. "When did you lose me the first time, Sabrina?"
I looked at him and saw the moment he understood. The night three years ago when he almost kissed me and didn't. The weeks of awkwardness that followed. The slow drift apart that led to him dating someone else, to me writing his name on a list born from heartbreak and frustration.
"That's what this is about," he said. "That night. You're still mad about that night."
"I'm not mad—"
"You are. You were then, and you're still punishing me for it now." He hung his head like all the fight had drained out of him. “Damn, Sabrina. If you wanted me to kiss you, why didn't you just say so?"
"Because I was dumb and scared and I thought if you wanted me, you would have done something about it.” The words clawed their way out of my chest, leaving a gaping hole where my heart should have been.
"I spent years waiting for you to see me, really see me, and when you finally had the chance, you pulled away.
So yeah, I was hurt. And yeah, I said some things I shouldn't have. "
"Things like calling me a heartbreaker who couldn't commit."
"Things like that."
We stared at each other across my living room, years of hurt and misunderstanding stretched between us like a canyon too deep and wide to cross.
Then his shoulders squared and he shifted his focus to a spot on the floor. "I need some time," he said.
My voice cracked. "How much time?"
"I don't know." He moved toward the door, then stopped. "For what it's worth, you were wrong about that night. I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kiss you. But I was scared I'd screw it up, scared I'd hurt you. Turns out I hurt you anyway."
"Trace, wait—"
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded like the end of everything.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the door and listening to the sound of his truck driving away.
Then I sank onto my couch and finally let myself cry…
for the girl who'd been too scared to ask for what she wanted, for the boy who'd been too scared to take it, and for the chance we'd just lost all over again.
Outside, life in Hard Timber went on, unaware that my world had just fallen apart. A week from now, the big wedding I’d been working on would happen as planned. The podcaster would get his story. And I would have to figure out how to put the pieces of my heart back together.
Again.
This time, I wasn't sure they'd fit.