Chapter 36
The hotel room door clicks shut behind us, and June goes straight into get-shit-done mode. Clothes hung, chargers plugged in, toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter.
Me?
I drop my bags at the foot of the bed and collapse on top of the comforter face-first. Shoes still on, hair tangled from travel, and my heart? Bruised and tender in places I didn’t know existed.
I curl into myself and watch June move around, grateful beyond measure that she doesn’t ask a single question. I don’t think I could survive one.
I’m splintered. Torn right down the middle.
Half of me feels betrayed. Lied to. Stupid for handing my heart over.
The other half aches for him so deeply I can barely breathe.
Sitting next to him today, close enough to feel his warmth, yet far enough to drown in the distance, was torture.
I spent most of the flight turned sideways, watching him sleep.
His lashes on his cheek, that stupidly perfect jawline, the soft part in his bottom lip.
The curve of his nose I traced with my fingers days ago.
He slept in peace. I sat there in ruin.
Memories of his hands on me, the way our bodies fit like puzzle pieces meant to click, burned through every mile of sky between Great Lakes and Portland.
June finishes fussing with her chargers, then crosses to me. She gently lifts my ankle.
“I’m taking these off,” she murmurs.
I don’t fight her. She slides off my shoes and sets them aside, then lifts the edge of the comforter and folds it over me like I’m something that needs protection.
My throat tightens. A tear spills. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She places my shoes by the nightstand, then sits cross-legged on her bed across from mine, facing me.
After a beat, she says, “Did I ever tell you my mom passed away last year?”
I blink and push up slightly, then wipe at my eyes. “No. Oh my God … June, I’m so sorry.”
She nods, a sad little smile tugging at her lips. “She fought cancer for years. She was … the strongest woman you could imagine. I was relieved when she wasn’t in pain anymore but losing her still sucked.”
My chest squeezes. “That’s … that’s awful.”
“It was.” Her voice doesn’t shake. “But she taught me something. Well, she taught me a lot of somethings, but one thing I keep hearing her say lately is: give people grace.”
I sit up fully, pulling the blanket around me, listening.
“When we were kids and me and my siblings fought, God, May and I used to go at it, my mom would say, ‘Juney girl, that sister of yours loves you more than she even knows. Give her grace.’”
My eyes sting again.
“And when kids made fun of me in school, saying I was too chubby to be a cheerleader? She’d say, ‘People who hurt other people usually don’t feel very loved themselves. Give them grace.’”
June exhales, slow and thoughtful. “So now when someone messes up? When they disappoint me or hurt me? I try to remember … sometimes people screw up not because they don’t care, but because life hasn’t been graceful to them, and they don’t know how to express anything right.”
Her words split me open.
If there’s one thing I know about Rogue Gallagher, it’s that life hasn’t handed him softness. And feelings still look foreign on him, like a language he’s only just learning.
“I’m just—” My voice breaks. “I’m so hurt. And confused. I don’t know what to do.”
June nods, eyes warm. “I don’t usually defend men.
Most don’t deserve it. But he’s been wrecked this week.
Every time he came to the office asking if you were there …
if you’d seen the way he looked? Like the floor fell out from under him every time I said no.
Even Coach Gaz asked if he’s sick, he’s been so off. ”
I swallow, hard.
“He cares about you, Cat. Like … deeply. And I think you owe it to yourself to let him explain. When you’re ready.”
A shaky breath leaves me. “It was so hard sitting next to him today,” I admit. “I’m glad he slept most of the flight. If not, it would’ve been unbearable.”
June snorts. “Girl, please. Awkward is me and Luca. He kissed me on Saturday and then acted like nothing happened all week. And then I had to sit next to him for six hours pretending I wasn’t thinking about it.”
My jaw drops.
“Oh my God, and Marianna had sex with Thiago, and I haven’t even asked her because I’ve been living in heartbreak cave.”
June grins. “From what I hear? It was life changing.”
I choke-laugh through my tears. “Of course it was.”
She stands, stretching. “I’m gonna run to the little store downstairs, grab snacks for our little getaway. Want anything?”
I sniffle. “… Nerds Clusters please.”
“You got it.”
She slips out, and the door clicks shut.
Silence settles again, not heavy, but waiting.
I walk to my backpack. My fingers find the side pocket and the tiny, folded square of paper he placed in my palm.
White lined paper. Folded neat. My name on the outside in his handwriting.
Catalina.
Holding my breath, I open it.
Dearest Catalina,
I do not know how to start this without getting it wrong, so I will start plain and true.
I am sorry. Truly sorry. I hurt you, and that is the last thing I ever wanted.
From the first moment I saw you, all I wanted was to be near you. To keep you safe. To look after you. Being with you did not feel new. It felt like something I had been waiting for all my life. My world finally made sense when you walked into it.
I know I should have told you the truth sooner. I just did not know how to say it without risking losing you before I ever really had the chance to have you. I was a coward about that, and I regret it every minute.
Talking to you on Veil was the easiest thing I have ever done. No noise. No judgment. No past hanging over me. You saw me for who I am. You made it safe to be myself. I have not had that in years, and I held onto it like a lifeline.
After the Houston trip, when you mentioned you had spent time with your family, with your sister, I realized it was you on Veil, and I thought I would find the right moment to tell you.
I pictured us laughing over the madness of it all, saying the universe must have had a hand in it. Maybe it did. Maybe it still does.
When you told me you were falling for someone, it took the breath straight out of me.
Because I was falling too. Hard. And I did not know how to tell you it was me without frightening you off, without making you feel tricked.
I wanted the real version of me to earn you.
I wanted you to choose me because you felt it too.
I was terrified of losing you before we even started.
I know trust does not rebuild itself with words. It is earned with time and honesty and steady hands. I am not pretending I handled this the right way. I did not.
But I need you to know that every word I have ever said to you, on Veil or standing in front of you, has been real. Every late night, every message, every quiet moment. I have never lied about what I feel for you. You are the first person I have wanted to give all of myself to in a long, long time.
I do not expect forgiveness overnight. You have every right to protect your heart. But I do not want to lose what we found. I do not want to lose you. I will do whatever it takes to earn your trust again, for as long as it takes.
I miss you more than I know how to say. And I am here, ready to prove that this is real and worth fighting for.
I am not letting go unless you tell me to.
If you give me the chance, I will spend my days earning yours. And if you say no, I will thank God I ever got to love you at all.
Always,
Roger
Leatsa, anois is go deo.
Do chroí. Do rún.
(Yours, now and forever. Your heart. Your beloved.)
I do not realize I am crying until a tear slips off my jaw and falls onto the paper.
I read the last line again, slower this time, like the words will settle differently if I give them room.
Do chroí.
Your heart.
The letter trembles in my hands. I hold it as though it is something fragile and press it against my chest. It’s warm from my palms and heavier than it should be. Every word he wrote has settled into my ribs and refuses to leave.
My throat tightens and my breath comes thin. Hurt and hope collide inside me, pushing against each other until it feels like the room is too small to hold both.
I close my eyes. His voice lives in every line. Not polished, not careful, not trying to impress me. Just true.
And as much as I wish I could deny it, I believe him.
That might be the part that hurts the most.
I curl my knees to my chest on the hotel bed, forehead resting against them, holding the letter like it might steady me. The ache is quiet now. It settles deep, not sharp, not loud, but heavy. A weight I cannot shake by pretending I do not feel it.
I want to go to him. I want to yell at him. I want to collapse into his arms and feel his heartbeat under my cheek again. I want too many things at once, and none of them cancel out the others.
So I stay here. Breathing through it instead of running from it.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. June’s name lights up the screen, snapping me back into the room.
June:
Be right up. Bus leaves in 30.
I wipe my cheeks with my sleeve and exhale slowly. I do not want to hide. I am tired of curling into the pain like it is the only truth. But I am not ready to walk back to him just because he asked. I need to know the choice is mine, not born from fear of losing him, not from longing alone.
I refold the letter and slip it inside my backpack.
“I need clarity,” I whisper into the quiet. My voice shakes, but it does not break. “I need to know I am choosing him. Not the memory of him, not the hope of him, but the man who wrote that letter.”
I stand and place both feet on the carpet. The sure, solid feel of it holds me, and I breathe into that steadiness until my chest loosens. I am not running. I am not falling apart.
I am feeling this. I am staying in it. I am learning where I stand and what I want.
And when I make that choice, it will be real.