Chapter 21
ROXIE
Ifound out on a Thursday afternoon, pacing my living room with my laptop balanced on one arm and my phone pressed to my ear.
I wasn’t expecting a yes yet.
That was the thing—I’d gone into this telling myself it was just momentum, just practice, just one more step toward something bigger.
I’d pitched confidently, sent a proposal that made my hands shake while I was formatting it, and then forced myself not to refresh my inbox every five minutes like a lunatic.
So when the voice on the other end of the line said, We’d like to move forward, my brain short-circuited for half a second.
“I’m sorry.” I blinked hard. “Could you repeat that?”
They laughed. “We want to hire you.”
I stopped pacing.
Just stood there, staring at the far wall like it had personally betrayed me by not reacting appropriately to this moment.
They talked through timelines and deliverables and next steps, but all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears. When the call finally ended, I lowered my phone slowly, like it might explode.
Then I laughed.
Out loud. Alone. Slightly hysterical.
I’d done it.
This wasn’t a test run or a favor or a hypothetical someday. This was a signed contract with a real company and real money and expectations that belonged to me. My work. My instincts. My name.
I pressed my palm to my chest, breathing through the thrill of it.
I didn’t need to keep my current job any longer.
I didn’t need to lean on my parents.
I didn’t need to shrink my ambitions into something palatable or cautious.
This was something I was building. From scratch.
And the first person I wanted to run and tell?
Ledger.
I didn’t understand my feelings for him—how they could feel both safe and unsettled at the same time—but I knew this much: I wanted him to be the one I told.
I wanted to celebrate with him, not just with a quick smile or a distracted that’s great, but the way real couples did.
Talking it through. Laughing too loud in the kitchen. Letting the moment linger.
And yeah … kissing.
The memory of it still lived beneath my skin.
The way it had knocked the air from my lungs and rewired something in my brain.
Just thinking about it sent heat curling low in my belly, a reminder that whatever this thing between us was, it wasn’t small or casual, no matter how carefully we both pretended otherwise.
I found him at the kitchen counter an hour later, towel draped around his neck, hair a wet mess from practice. He was scrolling through something on his phone, jaw set in that engrossed way that was becoming more familiar lately.
“Hey.” I was unable to keep the smile out of my voice. “I landed it.”
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“They signed. Full contract.”
There it was—his smile, quick and genuine, lighting up his whole face.
“That’s amazing,” he said. “I knew they would want you.”
Warmth bloomed within me, immediate and fierce. Not just because he was proud of me, but because for half a heartbeat, it had felt like we were standing on the same side of something. Like my win mattered to him in a way that went beyond politeness or proximity.
I wanted to step closer. To close the space and let him feel how big this was, how hard I’d worked for it.
I wanted him to see that this wasn’t a hobby or a phase.
It was me, choosing myself. And maybe, selfishly, I wanted him to choose me too.
To meet my excitement with his whole body, not just his words.
Because if he could look at me like that—smiling, certain, proud—then maybe this wasn’t just something that existed in the margins of his life. Maybe there was room for us to be real.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
For a second, I thought it might turn into something else. A hug. A celebration. Maybe even one of those moments when we forgot to be careful.
But the moment stalled.
He glanced back down at his phone. “Coach added another early session tomorrow. Recovery protocol changed.”
Oh.
The word settled heavy in my chest. I swallowed the rush of disappointment, the irrational sting of it, and told myself not to read into things that weren’t there. This was important to him. This mattered. I understood that—had always understood it.
Still, it hurt. Not because he needed to train, but because for a split second, I’d thought I mattered more than the next thing on his schedule.
I nodded, schooling my expression into something neutral. “Sounds good.”
The silence that followed felt louder than it should have. Deafening. Expectant.
“I was thinking maybe we could …” I started, then stopped myself.
Don’t chase. The reminder snapped tight around my ribs.
I forced a small shrug. “Never mind.”
I hated that my first instinct had been to reach for him.
To want to celebrate together. To want something that looked suspiciously like a real couple—laughing, lingering, touching, letting the moment stretch instead of cutting it short.
I’d told myself I wasn’t going to do that.
Wasn’t going to be the one who asked. Wasn’t going to be the one who hoped.
Ledger’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Roxie, I just—things are intense right now. I need to stay locked in.”
The words struck sharp, and I wondered if they were sharper than he’d probably intended. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on my part.
Locked in. Focused.
Like I was something that might pull him off course. Like wanting five minutes of celebration was a risk he couldn’t take.
Heat crept up my neck—embarrassment, disappointment, anger all tangled together. At him. At myself. Mostly at myself for forgetting, even for a second, that this was supposed to be easy. Convenient. Not permanent.
“I know.” I managed to keep my voice light even as something inside me wilted. “I wasn’t asking you to stop training.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replied, a little too quickly.
We stood there, not quite arguing, not quite connecting—two people circling the same thing and pretending we weren’t.
“Congratulations again,” he added, softer this time. “You earned it.”
“Thanks,” I said again, not knowing what else to say.
But it felt muted. Like we were both holding something back.
Like my win had arrived at the exact wrong moment—too loud for his quiet focus, too alive for the narrow lane he was forcing himself to stay in.
I’d wanted to share the high with him, to let it pull us closer for once.
Instead, it hovered between us, unclaimed.
I told myself it was fine. That this was just timing. Just stress. Just the rules we’d agreed to. But the truth was harder to ignore: it felt like there wasn’t room for both his ambition and my joy in the same space.
Later that night, I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to untangle why it hurt so much.
I didn’t need his approval. I didn’t need his permission.
So why did it feel like my success had created more distance instead of less?
The thought crept in uninvited.
Does he only want me when I fit neatly into his life—when I’m useful, uncomplicated, easy to keep at arm’s length? When I’m playing the role he needs instead of asking him to meet me in the mess of real feelings?
The idea settled heavy, a sinking feeling, unwanted but persistent. I hated that it made a cruel kind of sense. I disliked even more that part of me was afraid it might be true.
The next morning, I met Livvi for coffee at the Orange Blossom Café, mostly because if I stayed alone any longer, I was going to spiral.
Livvi had become my person in a way I hadn’t expected.
Since walking away from my parents’ world, she was the only friend who’d stayed.
Or maybe the only one I’d been brave enough to keep.
The rest had faded fast once I’d stopped fitting into the married-by-twenty, country-club-adjacent life they were racing toward.
Turns out reinvention doesn’t always come with a plus-one.
She listened quietly as I talked—about the client, about Ledger, about the way everything had felt slightly off-center lately. I didn’t say his name at first, not directly. I danced around it, and Livvi let me.
When I finally ran out of words, she stirred her drink slowly, then looked at me over the rim of her cup with a familiar, assessing expression.
“Okay,” she said carefully. “I need to make sure I’m hearing this right.”
My stomach was already in knots, and we hadn’t even gotten to the hard parts of this conversation.
“You’re upset because your husband”—she made a small air-quote motion with her fingers—“the man you once described as emotionally constipated with delusions of Olympic grandeur—isn’t showing up the way you want him to?”
Heat rushed to my face. “I did not say emotionally constipated.”
“You absolutely did,” she said. “Twice.”
I huffed out a breath. “That was before.”
“That’s the part that’s throwing me,” she said, not unkindly. “Because three months ago, you could barely tolerate being in the same room as him.”
I stared down at the table, tracing the edge of a napkin with my finger. “I know.”
Livvi watched me for another beat, then sighed. “And yet,” she added, “I’m also not shocked.”
That made me look up.
“You’re not?”
She tilted her head. “Roxie, anyone with eyes could feel the tension between you two. It was loud. I just assumed you were ignoring it out of spite.”
I blinked. “Well. That tracks.”
She took a sip of her drink, then set it down. “So,” she said. “What do you actually want?”
The question caught me off guard.
“I …” I laughed softly. “That feels unfairly deep this early in the day.”
She didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”
I stared at my drink, watching the steam rise.
“I want to keep building my business,” I said slowly. “I want to prove I can do this on my own.”
She nodded. “And Ledger?”
The pause said everything.
Because what I wanted wasn’t clean or convenient. It didn’t fit into the careful plans I’d been making for myself, the ones with contingencies and exit ramps. Wanting Ledger meant wanting someone who had seen me at my most unguarded. Someone who could disappoint me. Someone who could leave.
I wanted him to stay.
“I want us to feel like an option. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when I fit neatly into his schedule. I don’t want to feel like I disappear the second things get hard.”
Livvi’s expression softened, but her voice stayed supportive. “And what are you doing about that?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m letting him pull away.”
“Why?”
The answers stacked up one after the other, heavy and recurrent.
Because it was safer.
Because if I didn’t reach for him, I couldn’t be rejected.
Because I’d spent my whole life being chosen for the wrong reasons, and the idea of wanting someone who might not choose me back felt unbearable.
“I think I’ve been protecting myself,” I said quietly.
Livvi leaned forward. “Protection isn’t the same thing as pretending you don’t care.”
The truth settled uncomfortably.
We stayed there longer after that, talking about everything and nothing. About work and sexy swimmers. She didn’t try to fix anything. She didn’t rush me toward a conclusion. She just let me say things out loud that had been rattling around in my head for weeks, messy and unpolished and honest.
By the time we stood to leave, my coffee was cold and my chest felt lighter than it had in days. I hugged her outside the café, grateful in a way that went deeper than words—for the listening, for the steadiness, for the reminder that I didn’t have to sort any of this out alone.
But as I walked home afterward with my head buzzing, the truth filled me with dread.
Fear simmered. Not at the idea of the marriage ending, but at the thought of needing him to stay, and realizing that wanting it wasn’t enough.
That night, when Ledger came home late, exhausted and distant, I didn’t chase him. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t demand answers he wasn’t ready to give.
But I also didn’t pretend everything was fine.
I went to bed with my feelings intact and my resolve renewed.
I wouldn’t beg him to choose me or to give us a chance.
But I also wouldn’t keep shrinking myself to make it easier for him to walk away.
Whatever happened next, I was done pretending I didn’t care.
And for once, that felt like strength—not weakness.