Chapter Twenty-Three #2
The podcast keeps playing—something about being present and letting go—but the words blur behind the buzzing in my ears.
He’s getting married.
He’s moving on, promising someone else the forever he swore to me, then yanked away when I dared to have dreams of my own.
My fingers tighten around my phone.
It shouldn’t bother me. Not after all this time. Not after everything I’ve built.
But it does.
And I hate that it does.
I blink hard and stuff my phone into my pocket, jaw clenched. This is why I don’t do love stories. This is why I don’t believe in happy endings.
This right here.
And yet, a new thought pushes in—uninvited, unwelcome.
If he could fall in love again… could I?
Nope.
I hop off the treadmill and head home, ignoring the sting in my chest and the tightness in my throat.
Because I don’t want love.
I want a deadline extension, a decent cup of coffee, and the world to stop asking me to feel things.
That’s it.
By the time I get back to the house, my head is still spinning. I don’t even remember the drive—just flashes of traffic lights and the uncomfortable silence.
I peel off my leggings in the hallway, strip off my top on the way to the bathroom, and turn the water on too hot. Just to feel something.
Thirty minutes later, I’m freshly scrubbed, swaddled in an oversized robe, and have my wet hair wrapped in a towel like a turban. I walk straight to the bed, ignore the pile of laundry I meant to do two days ago, and fling myself across it.
Then I grab my phone and text Harper.
Me: You up?
Harper: Always. Spill it.
Me: I’m coming over. I’m bringing wine. And I’m emotionally unstable.
That last part kind of goes without saying; it’s barely after 11 a.m.
Ten minutes later, I’m at her door.
She answers in fuzzy socks and a tank top that says Main Character Energy. Honestly, it’s a vibe.
“I brought the good cab,” I say, holding up the bottle.
“Bless you. Come in. Do you want snacks or just a crash mat and a friend-slash-therapist?”
“Both,” I sigh, dropping onto her couch as if the weight of my feelings is physically too much to carry.
Harper returns with two glasses and a bowl of popcorn so aggressively buttered it could be illegal in some states. She hands me a glass, flops down beside me, and gives me The Look.
“Well?”
I press the glass to my forehead. “Graham is getting married.”
Her mouth falls open. “Graham… as in the Graham?”
“Do I have another emotionally scarring Graham in my past that I forgot to tell you about?”
She groans and slumps backward into the couch cushions. “Tell me everything. No—wait. Don’t. Actually, yes, do.”
I hold up my phone and open the Instagram post again. It’s still there, bright and shiny and smug. Can’t wait to marry my best friend. The ring, the sunset, the stupid matching smiles.
And the thing is—he looks good. Like, good good. And happy. And I guess I hate that.
Mature of me, I know.
I don’t hate it for him.
I hate it for me.
Harper reads it and makes a noise as if she’s being personally attacked. “He wears pink now? That is NOT his aesthetic.”
“Right?” I throw my arm dramatically across my face. “He looks like an extra in a Hallmark movie.”
“Well,” she says, sipping her wine, “if you’re the one who got away, she’s definitely the one who got… suckered?”
I laugh, just once—a weak little sound that gets stuck in my throat.
“I don’t know why it hit me so hard,” I say after a beat. “I don’t want him. I haven’t wanted him in forever. We broke up three years ago. But seeing that post just—ugh. It felt like someone punched me.”
Harper nods. “Yeah, it’s not about him. It’s about what it stirred up.”
“Exactly.” I take a long sip of wine. “What if it wasn’t just him? What if I’m the problem? What if I don’t know how to do any of this, and I’ve just spent the last few years convincing myself I didn’t want it because I was too afraid to try again?”
Harper sets her glass down and gives me a long, unreadable look. “Scarlett…”
I look at her. “Don’t say it.”
“I’m gonna say it.”
“Harper—”
“You’re scared.”
I groan. “I hate you.”
She just smiles and hands me a tissue. “No, you don’t.”
I sniff. “Maybe a little.”
“I’ll take it. Now drink your wine and cry it out. You’re allowed to have a meltdown, okay? Just don’t forget who the hell you are when it’s over.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
I sip my wine and ponder Harper’s words.
At its core, I know this isn’t about Graham.
It’s about me.
Something is happening in my life. Maybe it’s finally time to deal with my parents’ divorce in ways I’ve avoided all these years. To confront how scary it feels when everything you thought you knew is yanked away, or how to accept that other people can let us down and hurt us when we get too close.
But that worry is for future Scarlett, in a future therapy session.
This Scarlett just wants to complain about her ex and drink wine with her bestie—which is its own kind of therapy.
“Next time,” she says, standing up, “you need to give me more warning when we’re going to day-drink. I hardly have any snacks.”
I let out a weak laugh. “Deal.”
Later that evening, I’ve sobered up and am back home—sitting on my couch, wrapped in a blanket like a sad little burrito—when my phone buzzes.
I let out a sigh and ignore it. I’m mid-meltdown, which is not exactly the vibe I want to share with the world right now.
Something shifted in me today. Between the cabernet and the girl talk, the Chinese takeout and the dinnertime nap… I’m a bit of a mess. I’m dehydrated, for one.
But the screen lights up again, and this time, I see the name.
Chase Remington.
I groan.
The last thing I need is Mr. Sunshine checking in to see how I’m doing when I’m seconds away from drowning in self-pity and the leftover Chinese food I brought home from Harper’s.
But my traitorous thumb opens the message anyway.
Chase: Hey. Just checking in. You good?
I stare at it for a second.
He doesn’t know. He can’t know.
Right?
Still, I type back before I can overthink it.
Me: All good. Just catching up on work stuff.
Lie. Total lie. The only thing I’ve accomplished today is discovering that the man who once told me I was his entire future is now marrying someone who probably owns matching kitchen towels and says things like “we’re just so aligned spiritually.”
His response comes a beat later.
Chase: Cool. Just felt like you might need someone to remind you you’re a badass.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
Then another message pops up.
Chase: And also—I have ice cream. If that helps.
I stare at the screen, torn between smiling and crying.
Me: What kind?
Chase: Chocolate peanut butter cup. I don’t play around.
I sniff, pulling the blanket down to free my arms.
Me: Tempting.
Chase: I can leave it on your doorstep like a snack fairy. No pressure.
I glance at the clock. It’s late. I look down at my yoga pants and T-shirt-clad body and my general state of emotional disarray.
But the idea of sitting here alone, wallowing, when I could be doing something as simple and silly as eating ice cream with someone who makes me forget—for five minutes—that I’m a mess?
It’s more tempting than I want to admit.
Me: Okay. Five minutes. No pep talks. Just ice cream.
Chase: Scout’s honor.
Pause.
Chase: Unless you were never a Scout. In which case I’ll just promise not to be annoying.
Me: You’re always annoying.
Chase: Be there in ten.
I stare at the message for a moment, then toss my phone onto the bed and mutter, “This better be some damn good ice cream.”
But underneath
it all? A whisper of relief. A little softness breaking through.
Because even if he doesn’t know what’s going on, he still thought to check.
And I’m not sure what to do with that.
Ten minutes later, I hear a knock at my door and freeze.
I glance down at my outfit—an oversized T-shirt, yoga pants, and my long hair twisted into a sad excuse for a bun. The emotional devastation look is really working for me tonight.
Another knock. “Scarlett?”
I sigh and get up to answer it.
Chase stands there in joggers and a hoodie, wearing a grin that shouldn’t be allowed on someone this aggravating. In one hand, he holds a pint of ice cream; in the other, Rip is leashed and panting happily, as if he’s been summoned for an official emotional support mission.
“Hey,” he says, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Rip pushes past him immediately, sniffs at my feet, and then flops down dramatically across my doormat, his tail thumping.
I blink. “You brought Rip?”
“He’s basically a certified comfort professional. He accepts payment in peanut butter and belly rubs.”
Rip rolls over onto his back, as if he heard the terms of the agreement and is ready to collect.
I huff a tiny laugh and step aside to let them in.
Thankfully, Chase says nothing about my appearance. I basically look like heartbreak and emotional damage had a baby.
He just hands me the pint and a spoon, then drops onto my couch like he’s been here before. I remain standing for a moment, watching Rip trot into my living room like he owns the place, before I finally sit down too.
Rip immediately climbs into my lap.
Correction: he attempts to climb into my lap. It’s more of a large-dog flop that results in me half-straddled under eighty pounds of fluffy fur. My knees are numb, but my heart feels surprisingly lighter.
Chase looks far too pleased with himself. “Told you. Therapy dog.”
I stroke a hand down Rip’s side, my fingers sinking into his thick fur. “Okay, yeah, this is working suspiciously well.”
He shrugs and opens his own pint. “He’s good at his job.”
I dig into the chocolate peanut butter cup, letting the cold sweetness anchor me.
We sit in silence for a moment. Rip lays his head on my belly and blinks up at me with his big brown eyes.
Chase leans back, his arm draped along the back of the couch—close but not touching. “Wanna tell me what happened?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
He nods, like that’s okay too.
We sit in silence for a beat. Then I say it quietly. “He’s getting married.”
Chase doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t press. He just waits.
“My ex,” I add, feeling the need to clarify. “The guy I thought was the one. Back when I still believed in all that stuff.”
Chase stays quiet. I’m sure he’s piecing it all together right now.
I gesture with my spoon. “Instagram announcement. Filtered to hell. They look like a stock photo. ‘When you know, you know,’ she wrote in the caption.” I scoff. “I knew too. At least, I thought I did.”
Chase leans forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze steady. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“I let him in. I let him see all of me. And he still left.”
Chase’s jaw tightens. “Then he’s an idiot.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“You let someone in, and they bail? That’s not on you, Scarlett. That’s on them. He didn’t leave because you weren’t enough; he left because he wasn’t.”
I look down at Rip, his head heavy on my lap, and suddenly I want to cry again—but I don’t. Because somehow this—ice cream, dog fur, and Chase telling me I’m not unlovable—is doing something dangerous to my chest.
He clears his throat, as if he feels it too. “Also, for the record, chocolate peanut butter cup is a criminally underrated flavor.”
I smirk, wiping a tear off my cheek. “You brought it just to say that, didn’t you?”
“Partially. Also, because it fixes almost everything.”
“And Rip?”
He leans back and props his feet up on my coffee table. “He’s here to seal the deal.”
Rip lets out a loud snore.
And for the first time today, I laugh—really laugh.
It doesn’t fix everything.
But it’s a start.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, his eyes filled with that boyish charm I’m not even going to pretend I’m immune to.
I nod.
“You’re going to be okay, Scarlett.” He says it with complete sincerity, absolute certainty, and not a hint of amusement.
My throat tightens. I take another spoonful of ice cream to keep myself from saying something ridiculous, like thank you or please stay.
But I’m not sure Chase is right. My entire truth has been cemented in the reality that I don’t need a man, thank you very much.
Except… I don’t believe it anymore.
Not entirely.
And that is the terrifying part.