Chapter Twenty-Five
Matt hadn’t broken up with her because he didn’t love her.
He’d done it because he loved her too much to keep pretending.
He’d been right—about the silence, about the distance, about her still living with a ghost. The knowledge throbbed like an old break.
And yet, buried under the panic, there was a sliver of something else.
Relief. Because she couldn’t keep doing “almost” forever. Not to him. Not to herself.
Why couldn’t she give in?
He loved her—check.
He loved her daughter—check.
He had a real job, a real plan—check.
He was impossibly handsome—CHECK.
The list could scroll forever. So why did her chest clamp shut whenever forever got close?
She knew why, even if saying it out loud felt like indicting herself. Because the first time she’d handed over her heart, it had come back in pieces.
After nearly an hour on the steps, she finally stood, smoothed her shaking hands over her jeans, and walked into the home.
Game night was in full swing. Laughter ricocheted off the walls, dice clattered, and someone booed dramatically. No one clocked her at first.
Except him.
Jameson’s eyes found her instantly from across the room, his smile slipping as if it were tethered to her face. He stood and crossed the distance in a few long strides.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied, light as air.
He huffed, laced his fingers through hers, and steered her down the hallway off the kitchen. “Tell me, Daisy. You’re back early, without the other guy, and you look like someone kicked your puppy.”
Her eyes flashed. “That other guy’s name is Matt. My boyfriend.” She swallowed. “And he’s not here because of you, because you messed me up so bad.”
Jameson’s brows furrowed. “What?”
“You broke something in me. I can’t seem to trust a man who wants to be part of my life. Not even a good, solid one like Matt.”
She braced for him to argue, but he didn’t. His expression softened, his voice low. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, never meant to… royally mess you up.”
“Well, you did.” Her mouth twisted, gentling. “But I appreciate the apology.”
“I’ll never stop apologizing.”
“I forgave you a long time ago,” she said, surprising herself with how true it sounded. “I had to, for Amelia, and to move forward. These are my issues to work through.”
“Anything I can do to help?” His fingers squeezed hers. She only then realized their hands were still linked.
She squeezed back. “Just keep being a good dad to our daughter. That’s all I ask.”
“Done,” he said, no hesitation.
She slipped her hand from his. “We should head back out.”
“No one even knows we’re gone,” he murmured, a half smile ghosting his mouth.
“I don’t want anyone to think—”
“Let them,” he said, so quietly it vibrated through her. He stepped a fraction closer. They were already close, but now the heat of him skimmed her skin. Alone. A dark hallway. Inches apart.
The chemistry they never talked about was present, always present. He looked at her the way he used to, like she was the only thing in the room that made sense. His gaze dipped, just once, to her mouth. Daisy swore he was about to—
“Mom!”
Jameson stepped back as Amelia barreled toward them. “I thought you were here! What happened to your date with Matt?”
“It got cut short, sweetie,” Daisy said, finding her breath. “He had to head out.”
“Then who’s supposed to take us home?”
“Me,” Jameson offered immediately. “But not until I kick your mum’s butt in Monopoly.”
She’d stayed quiet through the rest of game night, her thoughts looping. She’d been dumped, which completely sucked. And also, Jameson almost kissed her. She was sure of it. Then Amelia had arrived like a lifebuoy and he’d gone right back to laughing on the couch, as if nothing had happened.
“Can we watch a movie?” Amelia chirped the second they crossed the threshold to their apartment.
“It’s a school night.”
“Please? I promise to be good for the rest of my life.”
They both laughed.
“You should be good regardless,” Daisy said. “And anyway, Jameson probably doesn’t want to stay that late.”
“So… just spend the night,” Amelia offered, casual as breathing.
Jameson went still. Daisy surprised herself with: “You can.”
His head snapped to her.
“Stay,” she repeated, steadier this time. “If you want.”
He smiled, slow and bright. “Guess we’re having a sleepover.”
“Yay!” Amelia wrapped his waist in a hug.
“Only if you get ready for bed. Now,” Daisy said.
“On it!” Amelia sprinted down the hall.
“I’m going to wash up, too,” Daisy told Jameson. “You can use my bathroom after.”
He nodded.
In the bathroom mirror, she considered keeping the makeup. She looked… nice. Youngish. But she wasn’t eighteen anymore. There were soft lines at her eyes now and a worry crease between her brows. Gifts of motherhood, she thought. Proof of a life lived.
She turned on the water and wiped it all away.
So what if he was used to women who treated Botox like oil changes or had perfectly sculpted physiques? Her body had carried his daughter into the world. By her standards, that was perfection.
After finishing in the bathroom, Daisy slipped on a black tank top and loose yoga pants. When she stepped back into the living room, Amelia’s head was already tipped onto Jameson’s shoulder, eyes heavy.
“Are you sure you’re going to make it, sweet stuff?”
“Yes.” She yawned. “Ferris Bueller?”
“Again?” Daisy asked, glancing at Jameson just as his gaze trailed, unabashed, from her bare shoulders down and back up. He smirked when their eyes met.
“Ferris it is,” Daisy said, starting the movie, knowing they wouldn’t make it to the parade.
Thirty minutes later, a soft snore bubbled from Amelia’s lips. They both stilled, then smiled, then simply watched her. The girl who would always connect them. Conceived in a love neither of them had found since.
“Will she wake if I carry her to bed?” he whispered.
“She’s a deep sleeper,” Daisy whispered back. “Just like you.”
That earned her the grin she’d missed; any hint of Amelia in himself drew it out of him. He lifted their daughter carefully, tucked her in, and they both kissed her cheek before slipping back to the living room.
Instead of lingering around, thinking of what they could do now that they were alone, Daisy headed straight for the fridge and grabbed a bottle of white wine.
She lifted the bottle up, silently asking him if he’d care for a glass but then suddenly realized her error.
“Oh, crap… you’re sober.”
He laughed. “It was drugs that wrecked me, not booze. And definitely not”—he checked the label—“Chardonnay.”
“Still—”
He interjected. “I like wine, drink it from time to time even, so don’t worry. You’re not enabling me in any way. I’m fine, Daisy. Have a glass.”
She poured one and sank into the couch beside him. Quiet settled.
“What happened tonight?” he asked, voice gentle.
“With Matt?”
He nodded.
“We’re… taking space. Figuring out what we really want.” Her mouth tugged. “Which I guess is different things right now.”
“So you’re not together?” The careful neutrality in his tone still sounded like hope.
“Not officially. Though it’s not that different from what we usually do.”
He winced. “No judgment, but it’s a peculiar arrangement.”
“Sounds like judgment.”
“Okay, a little.” He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t understand letting him run free in New York, then playing house when he’s here.”
“It worked for a while. When I moved back to San Francisco, he traveled a lot. I assumed, wrongly might I add, that he was messing around. We’d fight, break up, get back together. It was bad for Amelia. So I suggested an alternative.” She gave him a look. “A hall pass of sorts.”
He snorted softly.
“It took the pressure off. And honestly, he never used it. But now he wants a real family. And I…” She traced the rim of her glass. “I’m scared because of—”
“—what happened between us,” he finished quietly.
She nodded. “I probably should’ve gone to therapy a long time ago.”
“Worked for me,” he said, a wry half smile that actually reached his eyes.
Daisy smiled back because, on him, it looked true. “I don’t want to talk about Matt anymore, if that’s okay. I’ve got a lot to figure out.”
“Okay,” he said gently. “Can we talk about Amelia instead?” He hesitated, almost shy. “Do you… have any pictures? From when she was little. Maybe some I could keep?”
She smiled and fetched an album she hadn’t updated since Christmas. He opened to the first page and went still.
It was Daisy—nineteen years old, hair long, and belly round.
“You were so beautiful,” he murmured, thumb brushing the glossy edge.
“I was enormous and uncomfortable. But… thanks.”
“I wondered what you looked like pregnant.” His throat worked. “This is better than I imagined.”
Butterflies stirred. His words had always been a spell.
“Well, that’s the only one,” she warned when he flipped the page and found no more belly shots.
“Why?”
“It was a hard time. I thought I’d never want to remember it.” She swallowed. “I regret that now.”
They paged through Amelia’s life, stopping so Daisy could narrate small stories: the first smile, the time she face-planted into a cake, the preschool recital meltdown. At the end, he asked, “Could I… make copies?”
Sorrow rose, thick and familiar. “You can have this.”
“Daisy, no—”
“It’s the least I can do, but guard it with your life.”
He held the album like a relic. “Thank you.”
The moment stretched, quiet and raw and more intimate than anything they’d done in years.
Finding a pocket of courage, Daisy asked, “Tell me about you. About the years I missed?”
“You want to know if the rumors are true?”
“I want to know what happened. After.”
He breathed out. “After that tour, everything changed. We were on every cover, recognized everywhere. It shoved our career into overdrive.”
“I didn’t think it could get crazier.”
“It did. Tenfold. We recorded another album a few months later. It went platinum in a week.”
Her teeth caught her lip. “The ‘love letter’ album?”