Chapter 23 Sierra
Sierra
“So, you know how you told me that Kyle chose his family and his career and everything else in his life over me? And you were totally right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Sophie says through the speakers in my van. I’m driving back into Vancouver after landing on the ferry in Horseshoe Bay when I call her to tell her that I came home early.
“Well, I think I’ve hit an all-time low. Mason chose a building over me. A building that’s not even his.”
“You don’t know that’s true. Did you actually talk to him about it? Did you ask him?”
“I can’t,” I tell her, getting choked up. “It hurts too much.”
I’m afraid.
Sophie does her best to reason with me, of course. Talk me down off the ledge. And I thank her and tell her I love her, and that I’ll call her later this week to let her know how I’m doing. I tell her I’ll be okay.
But I’m not so sure how I’ll hold to that.
The decision I made to leave Orchard Cove, which seemed like such a healthy decision at the time—putting myself first and all—now feels like an act of extreme cowardice.
The truth is, I was running scared.
I moved to Vancouver in my early twenties and went searching for my biological father, and I know that I was deeply and maybe irreversibly wounded when I found him, called him up, and he told me in no uncertain terms never to call him again because he had a family and he didn’t want me to “ruin things.”
And I know that there’s been a part of me that must fear I’m not good enough to be anyone’s first choice.
Otherwise, why would I keep repeating this pattern? Letting the wrong people into my life, and shutting the right ones out.
Trying so hard to fix things as they fall apart around me—not knowing when they’re really unfixable, not knowing when to leave before it’s too late.
And not being brave enough to stay, to take a chance on something that might actually be good for me.
As I drive home in thick traffic across the sprawling Lions Gate Bridge, through Stanley Park, and into downtown Vancouver along West Georgia, lined with its gleaming glass towers, then pull into the secure parkade under my building, everything looks the same.
But I can feel it—that nothing is the same as it was when I left the city a month ago.
Because I’ve changed.
I’ve grown, so much, into someone more like myself, that maybe I don’t fit into this life anymore.
Maybe it’s more than that, though.
I can feel it when I go out for lunch, walk into a sushi place by myself, and sit up at the bar alone to eat, listening to music in my earbuds. While I run errands and go pick up groceries, alone.
How painstakingly I’ve isolated myself.
How maybe I never really fit in here like I hoped I would. Because when I came to Vancouver, I was running away, and maybe I’ve never actually stopped running.
And maybe these last few years, as I got my business off the ground, I was also trying too hard to fit into the life Kyle wanted for me.
A life that was bigger and busier and more expensive than anything I could reasonably carry, and yet he refused to help me carry it.
I realize as I ride the elevator back up to my apartment that it really wasn’t living in a small town that I hated growing up.
It was the people I was surrounded by, the ones who made Carlton into a place that I didn’t fit into.
And I never really had people there who saw me, who liked me for me, except my grandpa.
Here in Vancouver, I’ve never really had people of my own, either. I had Sophie and Pete and some of their friends, and some of my employees who came and went. And later, I had Kyle. But I’ve never really had a friend group here, because I’ve never really tried.
I expected to hate Orchard Cove because I thought it would remind me of the place where I grew up. I was wrong.
What I found was a beautiful, welcoming town filled with people who liked me for me.
Maybe I’ll just have to find some way to go back. So I can see Mason again, somehow. Like I promised him I would.
It’s not that far.
Though with the ferry, it’s at least a four-hour trip—on a good traffic day—from my apartment to his front door. I don’t know how often I could feasibly make it work when I’m hustling all over the GVRD from one pop-up to another.
And meanwhile . . . plenty of eager, horny tourists will be lining up at his bar.
I work the key in my lock on that depressing mental image. When I throw open my apartment door, arms loaded down with grocery bags, there’s a man sitting in my living room. I startle, dropping a couple of my bags.
“Jesus Christ. What the hell.”
“Hey. Sorry. Did I scare you?” He gets to his feet. Five-foot-eleven, broad shoulders, wavy, honey-brown hair. Wearing a suit on a Monday afternoon; he probably dipped out of work.
“Uh, yeah, Kyle. What are you doing here?”
“You said we could talk.” He picks up the bags I dropped, takes them to the fridge. Starts unpacking and putting all the cold stuff away.
Honestly, he was never this considerate when we were dating.
I hand him the rest of the bags, sigh, and shut the door.
“Right now? I just got back.”
“I know.” He gives me an almost sheepish look. “When you said you were on the early ferry, I just figured I’d come by today. And when I texted, you said you were at the grocery store. So I let myself in with my key.”
Right. His key. The one I really need to get back from him.
“Well, while you’re here, you can collect your records.” I take one of the now-empty grocery bags, head into the living room, and start packing them up. When I told him I was getting groceries, I thought I made it clear I’m busy today.
Guess not.
He follows me. “I kind of took the key as a sign.”
I look at him blankly.
“That maybe the door wasn’t totally closed between us . . .”
What the hell?
“I forgot you had a key. I was in Orchard Cove. I’ve been busy.”
“Yeah. I know.” He takes a step closer. “And I want you to know . . . I’m proud of you, for the way you picked yourself up after what happened and kept going.”
I laugh bitterly. “What did you expect me to do? Curl up in a ball on my couch and cry into my ice cream for the rest of the summer? Hide away, so I wouldn’t have to run into you and Estella groping each other at the bar?”
He swallows, actually looking regretful. “I wish you didn’t have to see that.”
I laugh shortly. “I’m glad I saw it. That night taught me a lot about you that I might’ve refused to see otherwise.” I finish sorting out his albums from mine and get to my feet.
I grab another grocery bag from the kitchen and go into the bedroom, start stuffing it with the clothes he left here. Once again, he follows me, and it grates.
How I would’ve loved to have his attention back then, even just another hour or two of his time, to talk things out face-to-face without arguing in circles. But he wouldn’t even give me that.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that, Sierra,” he says lamely.
“Then why were you in public?” I shoot back. “I may not have as many friends as you, but at least I have damn good ones.” I refuse to look at him. Or get upset about it all over again.
But I can remember that night so clearly, sitting right here, alone on my couch just three days after he broke up with me, still hurting, still hoping we were salvageable, still trying.
Calling him and getting no answer. Texting him and getting no reply.
Instead, I got a text from Pete. He’d just walked into a bar and happened to see Kyle and Estella there—all over each other.
When I was dating Kyle, seeing him wrapped around his gorgeous best friend would’ve been my worst nightmare.
I’d always been uncomfortable with their relationship; he’d always convinced me to trust him anyway.
But that night, when Sophie’s husband sent me that text, I went straight down there to see it for myself.
And I’m glad I did, so there could be no misunderstanding here.
I will always be grateful to Pete for having my back like that.
For saving me from making the mistake of seeing potential with Kyle, holding on, when there was no reason to.
The way Kyle treated me when he broke up with me and ricocheted into the arms of the nearest hottie made it clear that he didn’t really care.
While I was hurting, he was getting laid. And when I confronted him about it at the bar that night, all I got was more arguing.
I didn’t get an apology that night, or any day since.
“I’ll pack up your mom’s wine glasses, too,” I tell him coolly. “She wanted them back.”
He follows me into the kitchen, where I start wrapping the wine glasses in paper towels to protect them, and tucking them into the bag with the records.
“Sierra. Jesus.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “You’re not making this easy for me.”
In my head, I hear Mason’s tortured voice that first night in bed, and a shiver runs down my spine. You’re making this so hard for me.
“I don’t need to make this, or anything else, easy for you, Kyle.”
“But I’m trying to tell you . . . Estella and I split up. It didn’t work out. We’re not together.”
I take a deep breath. This is what he wanted to talk about so badly? Not us, but her?
I realize he wants some reaction from me, but I literally have none to give.
“I’m sorry,” I say flatly. “You guys made a good couple.”
“Come on, Sierra. It doesn’t have to be like this. I never cheated on you with her.”
“I’m not going to argue the finer points with you, Kyle. Let’s just agree to disagree about how loyalty works.”
“I just think . . . it’s a shame to toss away three years.”
“Yeah. It is a shame.” It’s a shame that I wasted them on you.
I bite my tongue on that, because there’s no reason for us to be enemies.
We have a history, but that’s all it is.
“But it’s over now. And I need to move on.
Because I deserve better.” I turn to face him.
“Honestly, we both do. We weren’t good together. ”
“How can you say that?”
“Because that’s how I feel. And maybe it’s not your fault that I never told you so.
But I’m telling you now. With you, I always felt like I was trying to do some overly complicated yoga pose that I could never quite get into, you know?
Or trying to squeeze myself into a dress that didn’t quite zip up, only because it was expensive and you liked it, and that meant I was supposed to like it, too.
But the whole time, the real me kept trying to fall out, and I just wouldn’t let her. ”
“What are you talking about, Si?”
“I’m talking about me. Because that dress never fit, and no matter how much I try to fix it, it never will. Because it was never supposed to. So, it’s time to unzip that dress and see what’s underneath.”
His gaze flickers down my dress.
Oh my god. He doesn’t get it.
“I’m not talking about getting naked, Kyle.” I sigh, frustrated. “I mean, I kind of am, but not the way you think. What I mean is . . . it’s time for me to get on with my life. The life I choose. And it’s time for us to say goodbye.”
He blinks at me. “You really mean that.”
“Yes, Kyle. I really mean it.” I hold out my hand. “Can I please have my key back?”
He frowns.
Then he digs in his pocket. He works the key off his keychain and holds it over my hand, but hesitates there. When his eyes meet mine, there’s anger in them. Contempt. Resentment, disbelief, and disapproval.
But it doesn’t bother me like it would have in the past.
“You’re going to regret this,” he informs me. He presses the key into my hand, then seems to be waiting for me to cave or something.
I don’t.
He grunts. “Don’t expect me to be waiting around when you change your mind.”
“You should go.”
He stares at me for a moment longer. But when it’s clear that I have nothing else to say to him, he leaves with a final huff of incredulous laughter.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I exhale with relief.
Then I look around my apartment.
It’s never felt so small, so cold, so fucking empty.
My gaze locks on the two stuffed grocery bags on the counter. The ones with Kyle’s stuff in them. Shit.
I grab my keys and the bags, and fly out the door. Jab the elevator button. All the way down, I pray that I can catch him. So this is truly the last time I ever have to deal with him.
The little traffic loop in front of my building is lined with parked cars, and when I step outside, I see Kyle. A couple of cars down, door open, just about to get in.
“Kyle!”
He looks up and I jog over, bags held out.
“You forgot your things.”
He scowls. Takes the bags and stuffs them in his trunk. Then he skewers me with an expectant look. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Uh. Have a good life?”
He stares at me for a moment, apparently in total disbelief that I would actually let him go without some dramatic scene, begging him not to leave.
But I already did that once, which was more than enough.
He shakes his head and gets into his car. “Goodbye, Sierra.” He shuts the door and pulls out, taking off in his beloved Audi.
I watch it go, up the short drive to the stop sign. The tires squeal a little on the pavement as he disappears into traffic, and out of my life.
I take a deep breath. Let it out.
And my heart stops.
My gaze has locked on another man, standing across the street. In front of a parked black pickup truck with a golden apple on it, staring at me.
I blink, hesitant to trust my own eyes. He looks like a total vision in his dark-blue fitted T-shirt and jeans, with his sexy hair all a mess.
His gaze moves over me with hunger and regret.
I want to run to him, throw my arms around him.
But he also looks so out of place in front of my high-rise in downtown Vancouver, I don’t know whether to laugh or pinch myself.
I wander forward a couple of steps until I’m standing in the middle of the street.
“Mason,” I breathe. “Are you really here?”
He takes a few steps toward me, too.
“You’re here,” he says. “Where else would I be?”