Chapter Forty-Six Joshua
Chapter Forty-Six
Joshua
Two weeks into the new year, and I already hated how fast time could move when you didn’t want it to.
Every morning had started to look the same: her knocking softly on my door, Honey climbing into her arms before I could even say come in, the sound of quiet laughter that didn’t belong in a place like mine filling the room, anyway.
Breakfasts that stretched too long because she’d get distracted feeding Honey scraps. Late-night conversations where I can’t help but swoon over her tone and accent.
A shared silence that somehow made everything louder.
It was good.
Too good.
And that’s why I knew it couldn’t last.
I was walking down from my penthouse to grab something from the lobby when I saw her.
She was standing near the glass doors, bundled up in her cardigan and scarf, hair loose around her shoulders. She looked like the warmth this building didn’t deserve.
For a second, I thought maybe she was waiting for me.
Stupid. Wishful thinking.
Until she turned, and I saw her phone in her hand, eyes soft, tired, reading something.
I walked up before I could stop myself.
“Where are you going?”
She looked up, startled.
There was that brief flash of hesitation again, like she was remembering everything we were, everything we weren’t.
Her lips parted, and she said quietly. “Hospital.”
My chest tightened. “Why?”
She hesitated. Then, finally, she said it, quietly if she didn’t quite want to, “Jennie texted me… Alex said the cast comes off today.”
It was a simple sentence.
But it hit like a punch.
Cast comes off today.
Four to six weeks, the doctor had said.
And that meant—
The end.
The end of the deal.
The end of her here. Of Honey climbing onto her lap, of the light she brought into every cold corner of my apartment.
I swallowed hard and forced a small nod. “That’s good.”
It sounded wrong, too stiff, too flat. Like I was saying goodbye already.
She smiled faintly, small and polite, and looked away. I could see it, the way her shoulders tensed, like she knew too. Like she could feel the clock ticking down.
“I’ll take you,” I said before my mind could catch up.
Her head snapped up. “W-what?”
“I’ll drive you,” I repeated, forcing my tone even. “It’s a long trip to the hospital, and the bus will be packed this time of day. Save your Uber money.”
She hesitated, eyes searching mine, probably wondering if she should say no.
I didn’t blame her.
But then she nodded once. And that small nod was enough to make my chest ache.
I gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”
She followed, and we stepped out into the cold.
The air was sharp and dry, the kind that burned when you breathed too deeply. I walked a little slower this time, matching her pace, making sure she didn’t have to rush.
Because I knew.
Every step she took brought us closer to the hospital, closer to her freedom from the thing I broke, from the reason she ever stayed. And closer to the end of my pretending I didn’t need her here.
When we reached the car, I opened the door for her, as I always did now. Her cast arm brushed against my sleeve as she got in, and it felt heavier than it should have.
Once I sat behind the wheel, I just stared at the road for a moment. Engine humming. Silence stretching. Her soft breathing next to me.
Cast off means you’ll walk away.
Cast off means I lose you.
And there was nothing I could do to stop it.
I decided to wait in the car while she went inside.
Engine off. Hands gripping the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles burned white.
Through the windshield, I could see the front of the hospital, glass doors sliding open and shut every few seconds. People walking out bandaged, limping, healed, hurting.
And I just sat there, waiting.
For her.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. Relief? Because she was finally okay? Or dread because okay meant she didn’t need to stay anymore.
The minutes crawled.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
And then she came out.
No cast. Her arm looked smaller now, pale from the weeks under plaster, her fingers twitching gently as if they didn’t quite remember what to do yet.
She looked fragile, but free.
That was it.
She was healed.
Fixed. I was out of excuses to keep her.
I got out of the car before she could spot me just sitting there like a coward and walked around to open the door for her.
She blinked, a little surprised, and gave a small nod before getting in.
When I sat back behind the wheel, the car filled with silence again. The kind of silence that wasn’t heavy anymore, just…waiting.
“Everything okay?” I asked finally, keeping my eyes on the road as I started the engine.
She nodded, flexing her fingers in her lap. “Yeah.”
Her voice was soft. Quiet. But it was the word yeah that broke me a little.
It was too final.
I drove.
Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t trust myself to.
Every red light felt longer than usual. Every turn slower. I wasn’t trying to make conversation; I was just trying to make the drive last.
She stared out the window most of the way, her reflection flickering in the glass, tired but peaceful. And I wanted to ask her so many things.
What happens now? Are we done? Do you hate me? Are you leaving tonight?
But I didn’t.
Because if she said it, if she said this is it, I didn’t know if I’d be able to drive the rest of the way home.
So I said nothing.
And she didn’t either.
We just let the quiet sit between us, pretending it wasn’t goodbye yet.
By the time we reached the parking lot, the sun was low. The sky was painted orange, gold, pink, the kind of light that makes everything look softer, even endings.
I parked, turned off the engine, and looked over at her.
She unbuckled her seatbelt slowly, careful with her arm. Then she smiled, small and grateful. “Thank you.”
Two words.
Simple.
And they still managed to hurt.
Everything fucking hurts now.
I nodded once. “Anytime.”
She got out; the door shut behind her, but she didn’t move. Just stood, eyes fixed on something across the garage.
I followed her gaze and saw it too.
The bike.
Leaning in the corner, coated in a thin film of dust, tucked away beside three cars that hadn’t moved in weeks. The last piece of the old me, the one who used to chase adrenaline just to feel something.
Her head tilted, the kind of curious tilt that always made her look younger, softer. She pointed.
“You ride?”
Her voice was quiet, almost unsure, but it carried in the echo of the garage, anyway.
I glanced at the bike again and shrugged. “Used to.”
She turned her head to me, eyes narrowing slightly as if she were reading me the way she always did, slowly, carefully, until she found something beneath the surface.
“You don’t anymore?”
Something in the way she said it—gentle, almost teasing—made the back of my throat tighten.
I wanted to tell her the truth. That I stopped riding the day everything started to feel heavy again. That I didn’t trust myself not to crash when my head went too dark. That I kept it because it was the last thing that ever made me feel free.
But instead, I said, “Not lately.”
And then the thought hit me.
Sharp. Fast. Desperate.
“There’s a view,” I said suddenly. “Up on top of the city. You can see all of LA from there. It’s beautiful, peaceful too. I think you’d love it.”
She blinked. “Now?”
“Tonight,” I corrected, voice quieter now. “When it’s dark. Lights are better then.”
Her fingers flexed slightly, the arm that had just been freed from the cast moving so gently, almost testing its strength again. She looked at the bike, then at me, and there was something in her eyes.
Something that said she already knew.
That this wasn’t just a ride. It was goodbye, dressed as something simple.
She didn’t hesitate, though.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Tonight.”
And that was it.
That one word, okay, was enough to light up something inside me and break it at the same time.
Because I could already feel it. The weight of the moment before it even arrived.
The way the night would stretch too long and too short all at once.
The way her hair would catch the wind. The way the city lights would blur in her eyes.
The way I’d try to memorise every single second because deep down, I knew—
After tonight…
There wouldn’t be another.
So I just nodded, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
“Tonight, then.”
She smiled back, small, faint, but real. And walked ahead toward the elevator while I stayed behind for a second longer, looking at that old, dust-covered bike like it was my last shot at keeping her a little longer.
If this is the end, I thought, watching her step into the elevator, her brown hair catching the last streak of sunlight.
Then let me at least end it with her by my side.
—
The whole afternoon was a blur.
Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t sit still.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her standing there in the garage earlier, eyes locked on the bike like she’d just found a buried part of me I forgot existed.
So I moved.
Did something. Anything.
Drove downtown. Bought another helmet, matte black, sleek, small enough to fit her. Polished both until they reflected the light from the ceiling.
Then I cleaned the bike.
It had been years since I touched it, but the second my fingers brushed the handles, something in my chest loosened.
Old memories. Old freedom.
By the time the sky turned indigo, I was ready.
The bike gleamed under the garage lights, humming softly as the engine warmed.
At exactly nine, the elevator doors opened. And there she was, wrapped in her oversized hoodie, hair falling down her shoulders, that quiet hesitation in her steps that always made her look like she didn’t belong anywhere and everywhere all at once.
She walked up, the hum of the bike reflecting off the glass walls of the garage.
Her eyes found the helmets in my hands.
Then me.
I didn’t speak. Just reached out.