2. RILEY #2
He leans a shoulder against the doorframe, and for the first time, I notice how tired he looks. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and suddenly I feel a little guilty for hijacking whatever plans he had for tonight. “No questions. No conditions. Stay until you figure things out.”
I nod, my throat doing that annoying thing again.
“I need to get some sleep,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s been a long day, and I’m running on about four hours.”
“Right. Of course.”
His mouth tips up. “Make yourself at home, Riley.”
He straightens and walks out.
I listen to his footsteps move down the hall. A door closing, slowly, then quiet.
I stand in the middle of the borrowed guest room in a wedding dress that cost twenty thousand dollars and belongs to a version of my life that ended approximately two hours ago, and I breathe. For the first time in a long while, I feel different. Free, and hopeful, if it isn’t wishful thinking.
I got away from Preston Sinclair. Well, not away, but this is a start.
I make quick work of the dress, and minutes later, I’m in the bathroom for a fresh start.
The shower lasts a long time.
I tell myself I’m just washing off the day—the hairspray, the makeup, the way perfume clings differently when you’ve been sweating through panic, and running through the streets of LA.
I tell myself the hot water feels good because I’m cold and tight-shouldered, because I sprinted in heels and then sat rigid in a car for an hour, and my body needs to unknot.
Then I sit down on the floor of the shower with my knees to my chest, and I let the thing I’ve been holding together since the hallway outside the ceremony suite come apart.
It isn't pretty, nor quiet. It’s six years of very carefully maintained composure of a woman who gave her life away, and just finally realized it was time to take it back. To live and be herself unapologetically.
I cry so hard my lungs burn. So hard my stomach cramps. Years of smiling through things I hated crack open all at once, and suddenly I can’t stop.
I cry for the dress hanging in the other room with thousands of dollars and expectations stitched into every seam.
For every time I said yes when I wanted to say no.
For every dinner, every event, every carefully rehearsed version of myself I turned into because it made other people comfortable.
I cry for the girl who kept convincing herself that being tolerated was the same thing as being loved.
For the way I made myself smaller and quieter and easier to manage.
For how long it took me to realize I was disappearing inside my own life.
By the time I turn the water off, I feel scraped clean. Not okay, but emptied enough to breathe.
His t-shirt hits my thighs. The shorts have a drawstring I pull to approximately twice its normal tightness.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and almost laugh.
Bare face, damp hair, drowning in navy cotton, freckles out in full force now that the makeup I’d been wearing since nine this morning is gone, and somehow, I feel almost… good.
Like the dramatic crying fit in the shower scrubbed something out of me besides mascara.
I look like myself.
I hadn’t realized, until just now, how long it’s been since I looked like myself.
I find my way downstairs to see the light in the kitchen is on. Easton is there, which surprises me. I assumed he’d gone to bed after what he said.
He’s standing at the counter in sweats and a different t-shirt, and when I come in, he looks up. His gaze does a quick pass over me in his clothes and then moves to the counter.
“I didn’t know what you’d want,” he says. “So…” he pushes a plate towards me.
There’s toast. Two slices, slightly unevenly done. Next, he drops a mug of tea, steam still rising, beside it. He adds a small jar of peanut butter that looks like it’s been excavated from the back of a cabinet. It's, objectively, the most minimal possible meal, but it’s perfect for the moment.
“This is perfect,” I say.
He shrugs one shoulder. “I can make eggs if—”
“No. This is perfect. Toast is perfect.” I pull out a stool at the island and sit down, pulling the mug toward me.
I wrap both hands around it. The warmth moves up my arms and into my chest, and I close my eyes for half a second.
When I open them, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t fully translate.
“Do you need to call anyone?”
“No,” I say it before I’ve thought about it, but once it’s out, I realize it’s true. “There’s nobody I can call right now who won’t make it worse. My mother means well, but she’s going to tell my father, and my father is going to call—” I stop. “No. Not tonight.”
He nods.
“Is there anything you need?”
I spread peanut butter on the toast and think about what I actually need, which is a list so long and so tangled that I can’t find the end of it.
I need my financial situation untangled from Preston’s. I need my life back. I need a plan that doesn’t have anyone else deciding how I live. I need about eight years of sleep.
“Not tonight,” I eventually repeat. “Some peace and quiet is enough.”
“Well, you’re at the right place.” He flashes his brows, and I can’t help but laugh.
“You should sleep,” I tell him. “You said you only got four hours.”
“I’m fine.” He picks up his mug and takes a sip. “I’ll sleep when you do.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I think we’ve successfully established that neither of us is a serial killer, so we can probably stop supervising each other and go to bed.”
A wide smile spreads across his face. “Fair point.”
I eat my toast, both pieces, and I drink the tea down to the dregs. He stands at the counter with his drink, watching me.
When I finish, I slide off the stool.
“Thank you,” I say again, because it’s all I have, and it still doesn’t feel remotely close to enough. “For the… for everything. The car, the house, the toast, and…”
My voice cracks apart on the last word.
Humiliation burns instantly behind my ribs.
God.
I don't want to cry in front of this man. I barely cry in front of family or friends, and this is practically a stranger.
But here I go anyway, my eyes stinging harder by the second as I stand barefoot in his kitchen wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs halfway down my thighs, my damp hair dripping onto my shoulders.
What a complete mess I am.
I drop my gaze fast, blinking hard like maybe I can shove the emotion back where it belongs. Back under control.
But the thing about today is that every feeling seems to be sitting directly against the surface of my skin now. No armor left. No polished smile. No pretending I’m okay because it makes everyone else more comfortable.
The atmosphere in the kitchen feels safe, and I think that’s what finally gets me. I feel safer standing here with this stranger than I ever did with Preston.
“Come here…” His voice is soft. Careful.
Before I can even process what’s happening, he closes the distance between us.
Big hands slide gently around my arms before he pulls me against him, solid warmth surrounding me from every direction.
His chest is broad and steady beneath my cheek, the fabric of his t-shirt soft from too many washes, carrying the faint scent of laundry detergent, cedarwood, and something distinctly male underneath it all.
My heart starts hammering unevenly against my ribs.
“You’re going to be okay.” The words rumble low against the top of my head. He sounds so certain. No hesitation whatsoever.
The only response I can manage is a tiny nod against his chest.
His arms tighten around me slightly, instinctive and protective, and something inside me aches at the realization that nobody has held me like this in years.
We stay suspended there for a while, my breathing slowly evening out against him.
Eventually, I’m the one who pulls back first.
The second I do, cool air rushes into the space between us, and I immediately notice the dark wet patch spread across the front of his shirt where my face had been pressed.
Mortification flashes through me. “Oh my God, I’m so sor—”
He beats me to it. “Don’t.” His mouth curves slightly, soft enough to steal the breath from my lungs. “Pretty sure the shirt survived.”
A little laugh escapes me, shaky and exhausted.
His expression softens even further at the sound. “Now go sleep.”
So I go.
I’m asleep before I’ve fully registered that I’m in a bed. The hoodie he left on the chair for extra warmth ends up as a pillow because it’s softer, and it smells like cedar and something warm, and it's embarrassingly comforting, and I’m too tired to be embarrassed.
I sleep like someone poured me into the mattress.
It’s past midnight when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I’d turned it back on before bed, some stubborn instinct toward existing in the world again, and I’ve been ignoring the incoming cascade all evening. The screen has been lighting up on and off for hours.
This time, I roll over and look at it.
Mason:
Riley. Where are you? Please. I’m the only one who’ll believe you.
I stare at the message until the screen times out and goes dark.
Then I put the phone face down, pull the hoodie tighter, and lie there in the dark for a long time, thinking about all the things I’m going to have to figure out in the morning.
Tonight I’m simply going to rest.