Chapter 7
GRACE
The phone buzzes on the nightstand while I’m still damp from the second shower of the day, towel knotted loosely around me, hair dripping cold trails down my back. I almost ignore it, but some small, uneasy instinct makes me glance at the screen.
It’s not a client or Jake, it’s Mark, my ex-husband. My stomach plummets. I open the message before common sense can stop me.
A screenshot fills the chat bubble. Jake and I at the bonfire. Someone must have posted it online, our arms wrapped around each other, firelight gilding our faces, both of us laughing like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
Mark: Didn’t take you long to turn into a cougar. He’s what, twenty? You’re past your prime, Grace. Thought you had more self-respect than parading around with a boy toy. Embarrassing.
My hand shakes. The phone slips from my fingers and clatters onto the hardwood floor. I stare at the screen until it goes dark, then pick it up again with numb fingers, reread the words like maybe they’ll rearrange themselves into something less cruel if I look hard enough.
They don’t.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, towel pooling around my hips. The room suddenly feels colder and smaller, and the air too thin to breathe properly.
Past your prime.
The same phrase he used during the last six months of our marriage, whispered during arguments, hissed when he thought I couldn’t hear, typed in emails when he was feeling particularly vicious.
I thought I’d left those words three states behind when I packed my car and drove east. Apparently, they followed me anyway.
I open my social media and scroll to the bonfire picture. Jake’s arm is strong around my waist. My head was resting on his shoulder. Both of us smiling openly, unguarded, happy. We look good together.
The age gap isn’t enormous, eleven years, but in the harsh, flattened light of a screenshot, with Mark’s venom typed beneath it, the difference feels glaring.
Obscene. I zoom in on my face, and there are fine lines starting to form at the corners of my eyes.
Then I look at Jake’s smooth skin, bright eyes, and the easy vitality of someone who hasn’t yet carried a decade of disappointment.
I close the app, block Mark’s number like I should have done months ago.
The doubt is inside me now, curling around my ribs like smoke, sinking claws into soft places I thought had at least partially healed.
I dress mechanically in my most comfortable clothes and twist my hair into a damp knot. I walk out to the beach, sit on the sand until my skin feels tight from salt and sun, and walk back.
After I return from the beach, I sit on the couch with my phone in my lap, thumb hovering over Jake’s name.
Me: Hi
Jake: You okay? Haven’t heard from you today.
I stare at the message for five full minutes, thumb trembling.
Me: Sorry, I’ve been busy. Talk tomorrow?
His reply is immediate.
Jake: Sure. Whenever you’re ready. Miss you.
The words twist the knife deeper. I set the phone face down on the coffee table and pull my knees to my chest.
I wake with a headache and a hollow chest. I avoid my phone for the first hour, make coffee, stare out the window at the ocean, and try to convince myself that the silence is kindness rather than cowardice.
It doesn’t work.
By noon, I’m pacing the small living room, phone clutched like a live wire.
I text him.
Me: Can we talk?
Jake: Name the time and place.
Me: Tomorrow, a picnic on the beach?
Jake: I’ll be there. Noon.
I waste the day trying to stay busy. I don’t sleep, and morning comes too soon.
I pack a small basket of fruit, cheese, and bread. Then drive to the pull-off, hands tight on the wheel, park, and walk the path to the beach with legs that feel wooden and unsteady.
He’s already there, sitting on a blanket he’s spread out. He stands when he sees me, smiles easily at first, then falters when he reads my face.
“Grace?”
I stop a few feet away. “We need to talk.”
He nods slowly, expression guarded. “Okay.”
I sit on the far edge of the blanket. He sits opposite me, leaving deliberate space between us. The distance feels vast.
“I got a text from Mark yesterday,” I start, voice thin. “He saw a picture of us online. Said some things.”
Jake’s jaw tightens. “What things?”
“The usual.” I force the words out past the lump in my throat. “That I’m too old for you. That I’ve turned into a cougar. That I should have more self-respect than to parade around with a boy toy.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, hands clenching on his knees. “He’s wrong.”
“Maybe.” I look at my hands instead of his face.
“But he’s not the only one thinking it. I see the looks in town.
And I keep wondering, what if they’re right?
What if I’m holding you back from someone younger, someone without all this history, someone who doesn’t come with an ex-husband texting poison every time I dare to be happy? ”
Jake leans forward. “Grace. Stop.”
“I can’t.” My voice cracks. “I’m trying to protect you. Protect myself. I don’t want to be the reason you get judged. I don’t want to wake up one day and realize you stayed out of pity or guilt or—”
“Stop.” He reaches for my hand. I pull back like I’ve been burned.
“I need space,” I say. “Just for a little while. To think. To breathe.”
He stares at me like I’ve slapped him. “You’re pulling away.”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“Honest would be telling me you’re scared and letting me help, not shutting me out like I’m the enemy.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. “I don’t know how to do this without getting hurt again. Without hurting you.”
He stands and runs a hand through his hair. “Then let me show you, help you, but I can’t do that if you won’t let me near you.”
I look up at him, vision blurring. “I need time.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
He nods once, sharp and controlled. “Okay. Take the time you need. But I’m not going anywhere. When you’re ready to talk, really talk, I’ll be here.”
He leaves the blanket and walks back to his truck without looking back.
I sit alone on the sand until the sun burns high overhead and my skin feels tight and hot. As I walk back to the cottage, chest aching, mind spinning, all I can think is that I wish Jake were here holding my hand.