Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Kit
“Sorry, that was a little insensitive,” she says. “It’s just . . . who wants to be around those men?”
I don’t remind her that her mother leaves her father every other season when she finds a young hunk—or her dad is fucking some twenty-year-old girl he finds while touring.
They’re particularly messy, and probably one of the reasons why their children can’t have a healthy relationship.
And no, I’m no expert. I just read that in a magazine.
Children of terrible marriages can’t find a good and healthy loving partner.
There was even a quiz, but I don’t think this is the time to hand it to her, is it?
So, I tell her about my day. We settle into a familiar rhythm: wine, chatting, and a little gossip in between. Then, I grab the takeout menus from the coffee table, waving one in her direction.
“Okay, do we want extra cheese, spice, or twice fried?”
Cleo blinks at me. “All three.”
“Perfect.” I pick up the cordless phone sitting on the end table. “I’m ordering pizza and wings. And no, you don’t get to veto the extra garlic knots.”
Her smirk curls slow and satisfied, like she’s finally beginning to thaw. “You really do know the way to a girl’s heart.”
I glance sideways at her. “Yeah. Through emotional damage and deep-fried food.”
She laughs. But even as I read through the menu and tease her about ordering too much again, I know we’ll have leftovers for days.
This is normal; I feel normal even when my mind is preoccupied with the news. Roderick fucking Wilder is back. And no matter how much I try to drown it in sarcasm and Chardonnay, that means . . . he’s back and he’s too close.
It should be okay. He’s nothing to me. It’s been years. Too many to even remember that once he was my entire world.
Let that go, Kit. It’s over, remember? Yes, over. This isn’t about me, it’s about her, right?
But how close is he? Cleo said she’d be looking to rent an apartment in this area. I hoped he’d refuse and head back to California, where he belongs.
Focus on . . . everything else, Kit. Not Roderick. Never him. He’s your past. He’s nothing, remember?
I order the food and wonder if I should head to the video store. I could rent a movie. Sixteen Candles is still our favorite movie—even after all these years. That will take my mind away from him.
“By the way, how’s Timmy?” she asks.
“Timothy,” I correct her. “He doesn’t like to be called Tim or Timmy.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “How’s the doting boyfriend, then?”
“He’s traveling,” I say, walking the tightrope between vague and honest. “He mentioned something about Japan and . . . philanthropy.” I pause and quietly ask, “Is it wrong to tune him out when he starts talking about work and his parents’ charities?”
I glance at Cleo, expecting judgment. All I get is a look that says ‘you already know what I think.’ She’s not a fan. My best friend insists there’s something wrong with him—and our relationship. Not that she’s ever liked any guy I’ve gone out with. There’s always something wrong with them.
Is she right?
Maybe, but I prefer not to focus on my love life.
I shift on the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of the tension in my neck and the slight tightness in my shoulders.
There’s a prickling under my skin—probably guilt, because I’m unsure if what I have with Timothy is worth holding onto.
It has nothing to do with the news that her brother might be nearby. Nope.
Focus on Timothy, Kit. Honestly, I don’t want to think about him; it’s better if I avoid those thoughts too.
The thing is, some days I try to analyze my relationship, searching for the spark. Then I remind myself that Timothy is safe and doesn’t need something flashy to say, “this is it.”
He’s exactly what he said he’d be from day one.
But some nights, I lie awake wondering what I’m doing.
Why am I afraid to search for someone who’ll love me for who I am?
It’s simple: because he’s everything a perfect boyfriend should be.
He opens doors, never forgets to call, and always asks how my day went. He’s reliable.
There are moments—small ones—when I want more than what he offers. Long conversations about things we both enjoy, or at least learning what he enjoys. I wish he’d visit me without telling me, instead of acting as if he’s making an appointment with his dentist.
Or kiss me hard and passionately instead of softly, just because it feels right in the moment.
Better yet, I wish he’d grab my hips in the kitchen and fuck me against the fridge—because he wants to.
Not wait until a Friday night to do it because it was penciled into his planner right after his weekly chiropractor appointment.
That’s when his back is in optimal condition.
Who knew one’s back had to be in good condition to fuck—missionary style?
Sometimes he’s so composed, I want to peel him open just to see what’s underneath.
Strip away the cufflinks and pleasantries, pull him out of his five-year plan, make him sweat with something he can’t control.
There are nights I think about climbing into his lap and pushing until he forgets restraint.
Until he remembers what need feels like.
The problem is that I don’t think I’m passionate about him—us—enough to even try it.
He calls me honey in that low voice that always sounds a little distracted, even careless, though he’s never cruel. That’s probably why I stay. He treats me right and is predictable. There’s care in the routine. There’s something comforting in knowing he won’t break me.
I’m aware something is missing. I can’t name it, but I feel it when I’m lying next to him and the silence starts to throb—too loud, too still, too hollow.
When his hand drifts over my hip but never grips, never claims, never stays long enough to feel .
. . anything at all. When I close my eyes and pretend this is enough. Pretend I don’t want more. Need more.
Every time he leaves without staying the night, I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s no sadness or longing—just peace that I don’t have to be perfect and lose whatever I’m holding onto.
But then—he’ll do something so infuriatingly thoughtful it fucking disorients me.
Like dropping off a book I mentioned in passing three weeks ago while we were half-drunk on his living room floor.
Or fix the hinge on my cupboard, like it was haunting him.
Or call from whatever country he’s wandered off to, his voice low and grainy with static, just to say goodnight like he means it.
I remember: he’s good. Dependable. Decent in a way most men never even try to be. He’s the guy your friends point to and say, “Don’t screw this up, he’s a keeper.” The one who looks perfect on paper, who does the right things, says the right things, yet . . . Timothy never feels quite right.
He should be enough. He’s so different from every guy I’ve dated, from Roderick fucking Wilder to . . . all of them. It’s like I’ve had a type until I started going to therapy. Now I date safe. I date Timothy.
Even when everything about him suggests he isn’t for me.
It’s just—sometimes, grateful feels a lot like lonely.
“Maybe when you fix your underlying issues with your father, you’d be able to find someone more . . .” Cleo shrugs, her voice carefully nonchalant, but her eyes dart as if she already regrets it.
The issues with my father aren’t the only ones I have to fix. I don’t bring up the big elephant in the living room because the secret to our long friendship is not talking about her brother and how he fucked me up six ways to Sunday.
So, I laugh, biting back the sting and all the words. “What about you? Fixing those daddy issues or still dating men twenty years your senior?”
“You’re judging?”
I shake my head. “No. But we both know why we seek who we seek, don’t we?”
She lifts her glass, her mouth twitching. “Touché.” Then she softens. Her voice drops. “I just want to be loved for me,” she mumbles, tracing the rim of her glass with the tip of her finger as if she’s sketching a wish. “Not because of who I’m related to.”
“Don’t we all?”
The truth presses against the back of my teeth. Is there anyone out there for me?
I wouldn’t even know what I was searching for if it slapped me across the face and demanded I stay.
Because right now, all I know is this: when Timothy touches me, I don’t melt, I freeze. Some days, I go through the motions and count the seconds until it’s over. Then I roll away, press my face into the pillow, and wonder why it didn’t feel necessary. Why didn’t my body burn?
I want to be fucked like someone’s starving for it—for me. For what I could offer when I stop pretending. Pretending I’m just an ordinary woman who teaches piano lessons and manages a record store. Not a musician with a long, crushing history.
That’s probably why I’m settling with Timothy, who keeps a careful distance, as if I’m something fragile and forgettable.
And maybe that’s the real bruise—being loved like you’re easy to leave.