Chapter 23 #2
“Reese, please.” Piper follows me into the hallway, voice breaking. “At least let me call Griffin?—”
I whirl on her, the words exploding before I can stop them. “No! I don’t want to talk to either of you!”
Her face blanches, but I don’t stay long enough to see the rest. I storm away, Chowder digging his claws into my shirt like he’s had enough of all this bullshit.
In the sun porch, I set him down by his food. “Here you go, buddy.” He flicks his tail and trots off, disinterested, like he couldn’t care less about the mess I’ve made of my life. Lucky bastard.
My chest’s still heaving, rage pumping hot and restless through my veins. I can’t sit still, so I march down to the gym and throw on a pair of gloves. The punching bag looms in front of me, silent and solid. Perfect target.
I swing hard, the crack of my knuckles reverberating up my arm, and pain blooms instantly across my hand.
“Damn it!” I rip the glove off, flexing my fingers, hissing as fire lances through them.
Great. Just great. Nothing like sitting in an ER with a broken hand because I let Griffin Topete get under my skin.
He’s not worth it.
Not the bruises. Not the tears. Definitely not the ER bill.
I drag myself back to my room, unlocking the door just as my phone buzzes with a bright and obnoxious reminder for tonight: Bachelorette Party, 7 PM .
Not just any bachelorette party, either, but mine .
A weekend away with women I considered friends to celebrate a life I thought I wanted.
Then, as if the universe wasn’t being petty enough, a text flashes on the screen.
From Vander.
I stare at my phone, trying to process the bevy of emotions swirling in my gut. His message is short and to the point, typical of the man I planned to marry, but there’s no mistaking its meaning.
Vander: This silence has gone on long enough. We need to talk.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, but I have zero clue how to answer him.
Do I want to talk to Vander? Do I want to consider whatever offer he might have planned for me?
Truth is, I don’t know what to say to anyone right now.
Griffin slept with me out of pity. Vander slept around because he could.
I thought Vander broke me when he cheated on me, but at least then, I could blame him, tell myself he was the problem.
But now? Now it’s clear. I’m the common denominator. The woman no one really wants. Second best, at best.
Never picked first. Never the winner.
My sister had to pay a man to touch me. What the hell was she thinking—dangling me a lifeline, making me believe I was worthwhile—when really, I was just a charity project.
Talk about digging my heart out with a spoon.
Maybe I was wrong to leave New York.
It’s a fleeting thought, one I release instantly, because even now I know it’s bullshit.
Vander and I had some good times, but they’re long ago and far away. I don’t know the man he’s become—or the woman I turned into to survive him.
Moving backward isn’t an option.
I toss my phone across the bed and huff out a sigh. There’s no point in replying to Vander when I have nothing to say.
All I know is I need to get out of here for a few days. Away from anything, and anyone , familiar.
I’ve got a plan.
Now all I need is Capri’s okay.
Her office smells faintly of leather and old wood when I push the door open. She glances up from a stack of papers, brows lifting.
“I know I haven’t been here that long,” I start, already bracing myself, “but I’d like to take the next couple of days off.”
Her gaze sharpens. “You okay?”
I hesitate, shifting my weight. “I don’t exactly know how to answer that.”
Capri just nods, like she expected as much. She’s not one for prodding—never has been. “No family emergency?”
I roll my eyes. “Unless you consider beating the shit out of my sister an emergency.”
“Ah.” Capri exhales, leaning back in her chair. “Got it. So you need some space.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s fine. You want to tell me where you’re headed?”
I shrug. “There’s this little town up in the Cascades called Hollow Creek. Griffin mentioned it once. Supposed to have a beautiful main street, good restaurants, live music on weekends. Figured I’d hole up there for a couple of nights. Maybe hit a bar. Clear my head.”
Capri nods, resting her chin in her hand. “Hollow Creek is gorgeous. I’ve gone myself a few times—it’s touristy, but in the best way. But the trek up there can be a little unpredictable. You’ve got stretches with no service, winding roads, wildlife crossing whenever they feel like it.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She tilts her head. “Griffin going with you?”
“No.” The word comes out flat, final.
“Okay.” She pushes her chair back, opens a drawer, and slides something across the desk.
A gun.
I blink down at it. “Although I don’t want his company, I don’t really want to shoot him, either.”
Not true. He’s just not worth the jail sentence.
Capri’s mouth quirks. “I appreciate that. But I was thinking more in terms of general protection. This isn’t Long Island, Reese. Even in the prettiest little towns, you want to be prepared.”
I shove my hands deep into my pockets. “I don’t know how to shoot it.”
“Then we’ll call Griffin. He’s a damn good shot, he could?—”
“No, I’m good.” A brittle laugh slips out. “Honestly, Capri? At this point, I think a bullet would hurt less than I’m hurting right now.”
Something softens in her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. She tucks the gun back in the drawer, then crosses to her liquor cart. The sharp burn of whiskey fills the air as she pours herself a shot—then another.
She sets one in front of me. “Don’t argue it, Reese. Just take the drink. Sometimes we need the burn to remind us we’re still alive.”
I wrap my fingers around the glass, the scent sharp, heady.
Capri tips hers back, swallows, and sets it down with a thud. “You’ve survived worse. You’ll survive whatever this is too.”
I follow suit, the whiskey scorching a path down my throat until my eyes water.
She scribbles something on a notepad, rips the page free, and slides it toward me. “My cell. If you need me, I’m here. Just be careful.”
“Always am. Always have been.”
But as I fold the scrap of paper into my pocket, one bitter truth coils tight in my chest.
Being careful didn’t stop me from being hurt. Didn’t stop me from being the punchline. Didn’t stop me from being not enough.
I slip back to my room, grab a duffel, and start tossing things inside with no real rhyme or reason. Clothes, toiletries—whatever my hands land on.
Then my fingers brush lace.
The lingerie Griffin bought me.
For a long second, I just stand there, holding the silky fabric like it might burn me. Then I huff out a bitter laugh. “Perfect. A reminder of what I was—a pity project.”
I ball it up and shove the scraps of lace into the bag anyway, pretending anger is enough to keep me upright.
On the bed, Chowder stretches and yawns, unimpressed.
My phone lights up on the nightstand. Mom. For the third time in as many days.
I stare at it, my chest pinching. “Sorry, Mom. Not today. I don’t need another lecture about how I wrecked your country club standing by ditching my abusive ex. The horror.”
Chowder blinks at me, the picture of feline judgment.
“I always did everything right,” I mutter, more to him than to myself. “Good grades, stayed in school, never got into trouble. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. Look where it got me.”
Chowder flicks his tail like he’s heard it all before.
“I’m tired,” I whisper, pressing ignore until the screen goes dark. “So damn tired of never being enough.”
I drop the phone face-down and zip my bag shut like I’m sealing off every voice I don’t want to hear.