Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The scent of chocolate chips and butter fills Daniel's kitchen—my kitchen now, I suppose. I pull the last batch from the oven, golden brown and perfect. Colleen deserves something nice after everything she's been through with Claudia.
I stack the cookies in a vintage tin I found thrifting last month. The lid has painted daisies, cheerful and bright.
This is it. One more meeting with Julian, then I'm done. I'll tell him I can't go. I take a deep breath, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. The words replay in my mind like a mantra I'm trying to convince myself to believe.
This has to be the end of it. One final meeting with Julian—just to say goodbye properly, to give him some kind of closure, to explain that I can't keep doing this.
It's not right. Not fair to Daniel, who trusts me, who's given me so much.
Not fair to myself either, because I'm tearing myself apart with the guilt and the secrecy.
And it's definitely not fair to Julian, who deserves someone who can actually be there for him without all these complications, without being tied to someone else. I need to cut this off cleanly, before it becomes something I can't control, before someone gets hurt worse than they already might be.
The decision settles in my chest like a stone.
I grab the tin and head upstairs. The hallway smells the same—floor polish and someone's cooking. Colleen answers on the second knock, her auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
"Liza! What a nice surprise." She spots the tin. "Please tell me those are your cookies."
"Chocolate chip. Still warm."
"Get in here." She ushers me inside. The space looks nice with her choice of furniture and eclectic touches.
Colorful. She and I go thrifting together, and she's always picking up the coolest stuff.
She's fifty-three, but she seems ten years younger to me—petite and cute as a button. "Coffee?" she asks.
"Always."
We settle at her small kitchen table. She pops open the tin, and the smell intensifies. Heaven.
"So." She bites into a cookie, her eyes closing briefly. "These are dangerous. Now, tell me what's wrong."
"What makes you think—"
"Honey, you don't stress-bake for your neighbors unless something's eating at you."
I wrap both hands around my mug. The ceramic burns my palms. "There's this guy."
"Not Daniel."
"Definitely not Daniel."
She listens while I explain. Julian. The robbery. The support group. The lie I told Daniel.
"You're playing with fire," she says, but her tone's gentle.
"I know. I'm stopping. One more meeting, then I'm out."
She studies me. "What does your gut say?"
"My gut's an idiot."
That earns a laugh. Then her expression clouds. "Speaking of idiots, the police still haven't made any progress with Claudia's case. I check in every week, to no avail."
My heart clenches. "Nothing?"
"They think she ran off with Dylan. That waste of space dealer boyfriend." Her voice cracks. "But Claudia, she's troubled, yes, but she wouldn't just disappear without telling me. Would she?"
I reach across and squeeze her hand. "I don't know, but I know you did everything you could for her.”
"Did I?"
"You did. She's lucky to have you as an aunt… letting her live with you, and being there for her. If I had an aunt like you growing up, maybe I wouldn't have turned out so messed up."
She smiles. "You're not messed up, sweetie."
"I'm not?" I counter. "I have Daddy issues, I date too many bad boys… and can't settle down to save my life."
She laughs. "You're spirited."
"Well, that's one way of putting it."
"Seriously, be careful with that new guy."
“I will," I promise, "and you stop worrying so much about Claudia. I'm sure she's fine." I don't say out loud that I agree with the cops, but I kind of do. Although it is weird that there has been no contact.
"I'll try," she tells me. "I've closed her bedroom door—I can't bear the sight of it right now."
My heart aches for her. We sit in silence, two women drowning in different kinds of guilt.
We finish our coffees and cookies, and when I leave, she hugs me tight at the door. "Be careful, sweetheart. With Julian. With all of it."
"Thank you. Call if you hear anything?"
"Promise."
I walk down the stairs back to Daniel's apartment, wishing I could do more for her. But what can I do? I didn't know her niece too well—she seemed very introverted, and always appeared a bit sullen. Quiet and serious. But she was a looker, just like her aunt.
Perhaps I could hire a private investigator or something—maybe Daniel would agree to pay for it. I hate asking him for anything, but this would definitely be a good reason to step out of my comfort zone.
A sharp stitch on my side makes me still in the middle of the stairwell—I get them when I'm stressed.
I breathe in softly, blow out slowly, and wait it out before resuming my descent.
Yep, it's decided—I should definitely stop seeing Julian.
I sprawl across the couch, bowl of buttery popcorn balanced on my stomach, completely absorbed in the rose ceremony. Brittany's getting cut—everyone knows it. She wore the wrong dress.
"You're really watching this garbage?"
I don't look up. Daniel stands in the doorway, tie loosened, judgment radiating off him like heat.
"It's not garbage. It's entertaining."
"It's brain rot." He crosses to the kitchen and opens the fridge. "And that popcorn's terrible for you. Do you know what's in those bags?"
"Happiness. Joy. Deliciousness."
"Chemicals. Preservatives. Artificial butter flavoring that's probably carcinogenic."
I shove another handful in my mouth and chew aggressively. On screen, Brittany's crying. Called it.
Daniel returns with a glass of water and a kale smoothie he made earlier. "I'm just saying, you could make better choices."
"I like my choices."
"Those choices show." His eyes drift to my hips. "I mean, I love your curves, but carrying extra weight isn't healthy. I'm concerned about you."
The popcorn turns to sawdust in my mouth. "Extra weight?"
"I'm not saying you're fat. Just that we both could be more mindful."
He heads to the bedroom. I sit frozen, bowl still on my stomach, suddenly aware of how it rises and falls. How my thighs spread against the cushions. How my tank top clings.
I pause the show mid-sob, grab my phone and stand up.
I open the camera, flip it to video—I do a little dance, twirl around.
I then watch the video and study myself on screen—dark eyes too wide, hair messier than I thought, body softer than those Bachelor contestants with their yoga bodies and green juice cleanses.
My curves. I've always loved them. The way jeans hug my hips, the fullness that makes me feel feminine and sexy.
Now I just feel…wrong.
I throw the phone onto the sofa. "Daniel and his granola-eating lifestyle can go fuck themselves," I mutter.
I'm not changing for anyone. Not even him.
I grab the bowl again, hit play, and force myself to focus. But the popcorn tastes different now. Every kernel feels like proof of something. Every bite is an act of defiance I'm not sure I have the energy for.
Brittany's still crying. The bachelor is giving his speech about following his heart.
I eat mechanically, watching but not seeing, mad at Daniel, madder at myself for letting his words burrow under my skin.
My phone vibrates against the cushion. I glance at the screen.
Julian.
My stomach does this ridiculous flip. I hit pause again and clear my throat before answering.
"Hey."
"Hey." His voice slides through the speaker, warm and smooth like whiskey. "Just confirming Thursday. You're still good for the meeting?"
I should say no. I should tell him I can't make it anymore, that Daniel's suspicious, that this whole thing feels dangerous.
"Yeah, I'm good."
"Great." Relief colors his tone. "Actually, I was thinking—my sister lives about fifteen minutes from the church. Would you mind if we stopped by for a bit? Just to say hi to my nephew. He's been asking about me."
My chest tightens. Meeting his family. That's not what this was supposed to be.
"Um, yeah. Sure. That's fine."
"You sure? I don't want to make things weird."
Too late. Everything about this is weird.
"No, it's cool. I'd like that."
Would I? Yes. Absolutely. Which is exactly the problem.
"Perfect. I'll pick you up at the plaza like last time. I'll text when I'm close."
"Sounds good."
A pause. I picture those dark eyes, the way his lashes frame them, how he looked at me across that deli table.
"Liza?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For coming to these meetings with me. It helps. Having someone there who gets it."
My throat goes tight. "Same."
We hang up. I sit there staring at the screen, Daniel's voice still echoing—extra weight, better choices, brain rot—while Julian's warmth lingers like perfume.
I grab another handful of popcorn and shove it in my mouth.
"This is fine," I tell the empty room. "Everything's fine."
On screen, the bachelor hands out his final rose. The music swells. The rejected girl sobs in the limo.
I know exactly how this ends. The warning signs are everywhere. But I'm watching anyway, pretending I don't see the crash coming.
Daniel's in the bedroom, probably doing pushups or reading some productivity book. Julian's voice still rings in my ears.
Excited. Scared. Guilty.
I've got all the feelings.
I reach for my phone, open a text to Jenna:
Going to another meeting Thursday. Don't say it.
Her reply comes fast:
I'm saying it. This is a bad idea.
I toss the phone away, unpause the show.
She's right.
I'm going anyway.