24. Chapter Twenty-Four #2
The next evening, I’m grabbing coffee near campus when I see them.
I don’t mean to.
I’m just walking out of the shop, the bell above the door chiming behind me as I push it open, a warm cup of coffee in my hand. The cold air hits my face immediately, sharp and biting, and I tuck my chin into my jacket as I step onto the sidewalk.
That’s when the door across the street opens.
And she walks out.
Celeste.
For a split second, my brain doesn’t register it. My eyes catch the familiar movement first, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when the wind blows it forward.
Then I see who’s behind her.
Brett.
He holds the door open like he’s doing her some kind of favor, standing there with that same effortless confidence he’s always carried. The kind that comes from a lifetime of never really worrying about consequences.
That stupid college football player arrogance in the way he carries himself.
The silver spoon he was born with practically glinting in the sunlight.
Celeste steps out onto the sidewalk.
They’re not touching.
But they’re close.
Too close.
They fall into step beside each other, walking down the block like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Their heads tilt toward each other as they talk.
She looks tense.
Her shoulders are tight, like she’s bracing for something.
He looks…
Smug.
Like he already won something.
Something hot and ugly coils low in my chest.
Of course.
Of course this is what this is.
Uncomplicated.
The biological father.
No draft boards hanging over his head. No scouts watching every game. No travel schedules or uncertain futures.
Just stability.
The kind of thing Celeste said she needed.
I tell myself not to care.
Tell myself it doesn’t matter who she walks down the street with.
But I stand there like an idiot on the sidewalk, coffee growing cold in my hand while I watch them go.
They turn the corner a moment later and disappear from sight.
She said she needed steady.
Maybe she meant him.
Maybe I was just… convenient.
The coffee in my hand suddenly tastes bitter.
I stare at it for a second longer before tossing the whole cup into the nearest trash can, untouched.
That night, I lie in my room at the hockey house, staring at the ceiling.
The place is unusually quiet for once. Most of the guys are either still out celebrating the win or passed out somewhere downstairs after too many beers. The faint bass of music drifts up through the floorboards, muffled and distant, like it’s happening in another building entirely.
My room smells faintly like laundry detergent and the lingering sharp scent of hockey gear that never really leaves, no matter how much you air things out.
The streetlight outside my window spills a dull orange glow across the ceiling, stretching through the slats of the blinds in long, crooked lines. They shift slightly every time a car passes by, headlights flashing briefly across the walls.
I rest my hands behind my head and stare up at those lines, watching them move.
Sleep isn’t even close.
My mind keeps replaying everything from the last few days like a highlight reel I can’t turn off.
Every moment.
Every look.
The way Celeste’s voice sounded when she told me we needed space.
The way she wouldn’t quite meet my eyes when she said it.
Every time she hesitated before finishing a sentence, like there was something else she wanted to say but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
My chest tightens the more I think about it.
Because the thing that won’t leave my head is something I said to her that night.
This isn’t about hockey.
I roll onto my side, staring at the wall now instead of the ceiling, the words echoing back at me.
You’re scared of something.
I said that.
And she didn’t deny it.
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t laugh it off.
Didn’t tell me I was wrong.
She just looked at me with that same guarded expression that she gets when she’s trying to hold something inside.
What the hell is she so scared of?
The question sits heavy in my chest.
My phone lights up suddenly on the nightstand beside me, the screen glowing bright in the dim room.
I reach over and grab it.
A text from an unknown number.
For a second, I assume it’s spam.
Then I open it.
Brett Silas.
My stomach drops so fast it almost feels like getting hit.
The name sits there at the top of the screen, bold and undeniable.
My grip tightens slightly around the phone.
We need to talk.
I stare at the message.
Read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time like the words might change if I look long enough.
A low, irritated laugh escapes me under my breath.
So he knows.
Or at least he thinks he does.
I sit up against the headboard, the mattress dipping under my weight as I lean back and run a hand through my hair.
For a moment, I consider ignoring it.
Letting the message sit there unanswered.
But my fingers are already moving before my brain catches up.
About what?
The message sends.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Then disappear.
Then appear again.
Like he’s typing something out and second-guessing it.
I picture him staring down at his own phone somewhere, probably convinced he’s about to lay down the law.
Finally, the reply comes through.
About boundaries.
The word sits on the screen like it’s supposed to mean something.
Boundaries.
My jaw tightens immediately.
The audacity of it makes something hot spark under my ribs.
I stare at the message for another second, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
A dozen responses flash through my head.
None of them are good.
None of them are productive.
Instead, I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the mattress beside me. It lands with a soft thud, bouncing once before going still.
I drag a hand down my face, rubbing the exhaustion out of my eyes.
The room feels even quieter now.
I told her I wouldn’t beg.
That part still stands.
But I also didn’t say I’d give up.
And the more I think about the way she looked on that FaceTime call, with her red eyes, intentionally staying just out of frame, as if she didn’t trust herself to step closer…
The way Rowen said she cried.
My chest tightens again.
Because none of that felt like someone happily reconnecting with an ex.
None of that looked like someone choosing the easier path.
It looked like someone barely holding themselves together.
Someone trying really hard to pretend that they’re fine when they’re clearly not.
I stare back up at the ceiling, the orange glow of the streetlight still cutting through the room in the same crooked lines.
This doesn’t feel like someone running back to an ex.
This feels like someone drowning quietly.
And I’ve never been very good at standing on the shore while someone I love goes under.