Chapter Fourteen Stay in Your Lane
Chapter Fourteen
Stay in Your Lane
Scarlett
I agree to go to the dog park for one reason and one reason only—Rip.
It has nothing to do with Chase. Nothing to do with the way my stomach twisted when he texted me, “Rip wants to go run. You coming?” Definitely nothing to do with the way my fingers hesitated over my phone before I typed back a reluctant, “Fine.”
It’s because I love Rip. That’s all.
The park itself is more of a winding trail than a fenced-in enclosure.
It stretches along the dunes, weaving through shaded pockets of oak trees where the air is cool and damp, smelling of moss and old leaves.
The trail is a mixture of packed sand and pine needles that muffle our footsteps, while wild blackberry bushes crowd the path in places, their thorns catching at our clothes.
When the trees finally part to reveal the lake, the temperature drops by five degrees instantly.
The breeze carries the sound of waves and the faint diesel smell of a distant freighter, mixing with the fresh water scent.
It’s beautiful and peaceful—the perfect place for a person to clear their head.
Or, in Rip’s case, to sprint at full speed like he’s being chased by demons.
He takes off the second Chase unclips his leash, a blur of golden fur and uncontainable energy.
“Wow, does he have an off switch?” I ask.
Chase smirks, watching his dog bolt down the trail. “Only after he’s burned through an entire tank of gas. Then he naps like the dead.”
I hum, adjusting my sunglasses as we start walking. The sun is out in full force today, the air warm but not too humid, the scent of fresh pine and lake breeze filling the air. It should be relaxing. It should be exactly what I need to clear my head.
But my brain won’t shut up.
I keep thinking about the past few nights, sharing ice cream and pancakes and late-night conversations.
I hadn’t planned to let my guard down. Hadn’t meant to tell him about my family or how this beach town is the last place I remember my parents being truly happy.
But Chase had just… listened. No teasing, no witty comebacks—just quiet, genuine understanding.
And then, before I could process that, he told me about Owen.
The way his voice had gone rough when he admitted he wasn’t there when his little brother’s life changed forever. The guilt he carried. The way he tried to play it off, but I could still hear it in his voice.
We’re the same, I’d thought. Both of us running from things, both pretending we don’t need anyone.
And that realization had scared the absolute hell out of me.
Because if Chase and I are alike, then maybe—just maybe—I could be wrong.
Wrong about love. Wrong about connection. Wrong about everything I’ve built my career preaching.
No. I shake the thought off before it can take root.
“Earth to Calloway,” Chase says, nudging my elbow. “You good?”
I blink, jolting back to the present. “Yeah, fine.”
His eyes flick to mine, assessing. “That was the least convincing answer I’ve ever heard.”
“Congrats,” I deadpan. “You’ve cracked the case.”
He huffs a laugh, then gestures ahead. “C’mon. Rip’s waiting.”
Sure enough, Rip has paused up ahead on the trail, sitting in the shade of a tree with his tail wagging while he waits patiently for us.
“Who’s the best boy?” I coo, rubbing his head while his tongue flops out.
Rip sprints off again, and we dutifully follow.
It’s… nice. Surprisingly easy.
Then, just as I start to think we might actually make it through this entire outing without Chase annoying the hell out of me, he asks, “So, how’s the writing coming?”
I stiffen.
Damn it.
And just like that, the easy mood evaporates.
Between Harper’s constant texts and Chase checking in… I’m ready to snap.
Chase notices immediately. Of course he does.
He arches a brow, oblivious—or maybe not—to the sudden tension in my shoulders. “That bad, huh?”
I exhale slowly, keeping my voice even. “It’s fine.”
“You hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He gives me a look. “Scottie…”
I clench my jaw. Why did he have to say my name like that? Like he actually cares?
I force a shrug, adjusting my sunglasses. “It’s just… slow-going.”
He hums, unconvinced. “Writer’s block?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.”
I glance at him, scowling. “Do you always have to push?”
His mouth tips into an infuriating smirk. “Yes.”
I huff, kicking a loose rock with the toe of my sneaker. “It’s not writer’s block. It’s just… my process.”
“Your process,” he echoes, sounding uncertain.
I glare at him. “I guess so.”
It didn’t used to be this way. The old me could whip a book out in six months, four if I was really in the zone. I’ve been struggling for ten now and don’t even have a thousand words.
Chase grins, like he enjoys pissing me off. (Spoiler: He does.) Then, in an easy, nonchalant voice, he asks, “So what’s the big deal?”
I blink. “What?”
“The writing,” he says. “Why do you think you’re stuck?”
I scoff. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be stuck.”
“Maybe you’re overthinking it.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Thank you, Dr. Remington. Clearly, I just needed a hockey player to mansplain writing to me.”
He chuckles, unbothered. “I’m just saying—if you’re struggling, maybe don’t make it so hard on yourself. Just sit down and write.”
I stop walking.
He takes another step before realizing I’m no longer beside him. When he turns back, I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh. Oh, just sit down and write? That’s your advice?”
Chase shrugs. “Yeah?”
I stare at him for a long beat. “That is possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His smirk grows. “You sure? ‘Cause I’ve said a lot of dumb things.”
I scowl, planting a hand on my hip. “You think writing is easy, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you do.”
He tilts his head, weighing my words. “I just think if something’s important to you, you do the damn thing. Whether it’s easy or not.”
Something in my chest twists. Annoyance. Frustration. The tiniest shred of self-doubt.
I shake it off.
“You don’t get it,” I say flatly.
Chase watches me, too perceptive for his own good. “Is it something more? Like you’ve lost your love for writing?” I open my mouth. Shut it. My pulse kicks up. “You have, haven’t you?”
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t want to say the words out loud.
Because if I do, that means they’re real.
The book. My career. Everything I’ve built.
What if I don’t believe in it anymore?
The thought makes my stomach churn.
He studies me for a long beat, then shakes his head. “I think that’s your problem, Calloway.”
My spine stiffens. “What?”
“You’re scared.”
I scoff. “Of what?”
He takes a slow step toward me, eyes never leaving mine. “That you don’t believe in what you’re writing anymore.”
“Where are you getting this stuff?” I force out a laugh, but it comes out flat, off-sounding.
“I don’t know. I just think maybe it’s not your fault; maybe there’s a reason why you’re struggling.”
“Oh, please… enlighten me then.”
He turns to meet my eyes. “Maybe your problem is that you don’t actually believe the stuff you preach.”
I go still.
A cold breeze rolls in from the lake, but it’s nothing compared to the way my blood runs hot.
How dare he?
What the hell does he know about any of this?
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I just snap.
“Why don’t you stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine? I know nothing about hockey, and you know nothing about writing.”
He nods. “I don’t know anything about writing, you’re right. But I do know that you’re struggling. And at some point, you have to stop blaming other people for why you’re so freaking miserable.”
The words hang between us like a loaded gun.
Chase’s jaw tightens. A muscle in his cheek twitches.
I see red. How dare he pretend to know what I’m thinking, what I feel?
We met two weeks ago.
“Have fun with Rip,” I say. “I’m going to walk back.”
And without waiting for his response, I turn and head for the water. It’s probably a mile back to my house.