Chapter 22
Charlie
“Charlie!” one of my old neighbors greets, walking out of the apartment building just as I’m walking in. “I haven’t seen you around in months! Where’ve you been?”
“Hi, Erin.” I smile politely, pausing just outside the door. “I actually moved out.”
She blinks, surprised. “You did? But Dillon…” I can see the moment it lands for her, awkwardness flashing across her face. “Oh.”
“Yep.”
Erin gives me a tight, uncomfortable smile, but there’s genuine remorse there, too. “I’m sorry to hear that. You guys were a nice couple.”
“Yeah,” I say thoughtfully. “We were.”
She steps out, holding the door open for me to enter. Her curiosity blazes through her eyes, but she’s polite enough not to ask the question that’s trembling on her lips. “I’ll see you later!”
I walk away, heading for the elevator, my mind firmly on the conversation I had with Barrett last night, and what he’d said about Dillon’s run-in with my mother.
It turns out that game nights aren’t just for drinking beer and shooting each other, and the guys end up swapping more stories than teenage girls at a sleepover.
Barrett shared that, according to Dillon’s version of events, my mother had barely gotten a word in while he told her a few home truths. A switch had been flipped inside me, knowing he had defended me without ever expecting me to know about it.
I spent our entire relationship doing my damndest to keep him away from my parents, horrified and ashamed at the idea of him witnessing how they treated me. And then he did the one thing I wished he had done that night with Bliss…But I never imagined him defending me to my mother.
A wave of déjà vu swells as I walk down the hallway to our apartment. It’s been over half a year since that day, and I’m not sure if it’s the distance of time or something else, but the hurt of the memory doesn’t seem to have such a tight hold on me anymore.
It happened—the words Bliss said, and the ones Dillon then spewed at me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget them, or look at him quite the same, but he’s not the same person he was back then. And now…
Now, the hurt has faded enough to give me the clarity to hear him out.
I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, coming here, and I don’t even know what I’m going to say. But then my knuckles are rapping against the door, my anxiety flaring.
I’m about to run back to the elevator when the door opens and Dillon’s standing there, wearing sweats and a short-sleeved shirt. His mouth drops open as he takes me in, his eyes wide. “Charlie?” He’s not blinking, like he thinks I might disappear if he does.
“Hi.” I give an awkward little wave, and he startles, looking around as if he’s checking to see if I’m alone or not, making me think his head went back to the last time I was here, too.
“I was hoping we could talk,” I say carefully, watching every twitch of his expression—excitement, wariness, resignation, and hope, all warring for dominance. His throat bobs on a swallow as he steps back, clinging to the door as he gestures me inside.
The door closes quietly behind me as I look around the place that was my home, feeling as if I’ve stepped back through time. It doesn’t look any different than the day I spent packing my things, gaps still peppering the shelves and mantel.
“It’s good to see you, Charlie,” Dillon murmurs, hovering near the door. “Is everything okay?”
I step up to the table beside the couch, fingers touching the wood where my books used to be stacked. “You haven’t changed much,” I say instead of answering. “Everything looks the same.”
He makes a noise behind me, and I turn around to find him leaning against the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his attention roaming around the room. “It doesn’t,” he says quietly. “It’s missing a lot.”
Those hazel eyes land back on me, bright and full of anguish. My breath stalls in my chest, and then, before I’ve made a conscious decision, I turn and walk through the rest of the apartment. I can hear Dillon’s steps behind me, a silent shadow as I peek into each room like I still have a right to…
And then I’m in our bedroom.
His bedroom.
I can feel him watching me as I look around, but my attention catches on the bedside table.
When I moved out, there was one picture of us—from when we moved in together—but now there’s a second one beside it.
I step closer and pick it up, my heart feeling like it’s about to pound out of my chest. It’s a close-up selfie, my arms outstretched as I hold the phone up.
We’re flushed with cold, a knit hat on my head, and Dillon’s jacket lapels pulled up high.
He’s standing behind me, leaning down to press our cheeks together.
Behind me, he murmurs, “Last Christmas.” His voice is hoarse with emotion.
I look over my shoulder, my brows drawing together.
His eyes aren’t on me, but fixated on the photo in my hand, lost in the memory.
He seems to shake the past away, shooting me a look of apology.
“Do you want a drink or something?” A pause.
“You know what? I’ll just go start some coffee. ”
Before I can say anything, he’s turned and walked away, leaving me staring at the space he left behind.
I’m not sure what I expected, coming here, but it wasn’t that nothing at all has changed.
I yank the closet door open, finding Dillon’s clothes still hanging on the left side—just as I left them.
The right side is bare, only some empty hangers in the barren space.
It feels as if I’ve only just left, even though I know months have passed. I think of my room at Kayla’s, boxes still unpacked. I think of the wall of boxes at Barrett’s apartment.
Another puzzle piece slots into place, and I let out a long exhale.
In the kitchen, Dillon’s pottering, making coffees. The slightest tremble to his hands gives him away. His head twitches in my direction as I lean against the counter, and he smiles wanly. “I didn’t expect you today.”
I lift a shoulder. “It was an impulsive decision.” I pause, watching him. “I had dinner at my parents’ last night.”
If I wasn’t watching, I might have missed the sudden tension in his shoulders before he shakes them out in the next breath, asking casually, “Thursday, right?”
I hum an agreement. “It was my first time seeing them in months, actually.”
Dillon shoots me a surprised look. “What happened to monthly dinners?” He finishes doctoring the coffees and puts one down in front of me. I look at the cup, my eyes tracing over the black script covering the side of the cup. Don’t talk to me after my coffee either.
“I took a break,” I answer simply, wrapping my hands around my mug, letting the warmth seep into my palms. I take a sip, stifling a smile at the realization that he’s made it just how I like it—the perfect ratio of creamer to coffee, landing just a little more heavily on the sweet side.
Dillon dips his chin, brows furrowed. “Well, is it wrong of me to say that I’m glad you did?” He’s standing across the kitchen, his hazel eyes fixed on me.
It was an impulsive decision to come today after everything I learned last night, but standing here…
There’s something different about him. Something I didn’t see that night at the pub.
It isn’t just the fact that nothing has changed around the apartment, as if my absence was always just temporary, and he was just waiting for everything, for me, to come back.
It’s also him.
The longer we stand here in silence, the more Dillon’s frown deepens. He opens his mouth, but then shakes his head, like he thinks better of whatever he wants to say. “It’s good to see you, Charlie,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon after last week.”
I nod, looking down at my coffee, trying to get my thoughts in order. “I wasn’t planning on coming today, but some things happened last night. Or I learned something, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”
He goes still, his expression frozen. “You…learned something at your mother’s?” he says, dread coating each word. “Is this about—”
I can’t stop the curve of my mouth. “About you running into her a couple days ago?”
Dillon grimaces, guilt turning his face red. He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry, Charlie. The last thing I wanted to do was make things worse for you. She started talking and I…I just got so angry.”
“She mentioned you were a bit”—I pretend to search for the word—“uncouth.”
He snorts. “That’s one way to describe it.”
“I walked out not long after that, and Barrett filled me in on what you told him.” I sip my coffee. “It’s not surprising the two sides are a little different, yours and hers.”
Irritation flickers across his face. “Not surprising in the least,” he mutters, before defiance firms his tone. “I wouldn’t take it back. She needed to hear it.”
I nod consideringly. “You never liked the way I let her speak to me, even though you rarely saw it.”
Dillon’s face goes tight with agitation. “You made sure of that.” He rushes to add, “Not that I blame you for it. I always understood, and I understand even more now.”
I shoot him a bemused frown. “I don’t know what that means.”
The flush in his cheeks spreads, deepening until his ears are coated and the red is creeping down his neck as he looks anywhere but at me. “I’ve, uh…” He scrunches his face up. “I’ve been going to therapy.”
The last words come out so quietly, I strain to hear him. Even so, I blink, asking loudly, “Therapy? Like therapy therapy?” He narrows his eyes at my nonplussed tone, looking uncomfortable.
“Yes.”
“And that has something to do with you chewing my mother out?” I ask, eyebrows arched high.
“I didn’t chew her out,” he immediately protests. When I just glance at him silently, he looks away. “Okay, maybe I did. But she had it coming.”
“I’m not arguing. So, you’ve been going to therapy. Since when?”