31. Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Alex
Ihesitate before I ask this question. I think I already know the answer. But I want to know the story. I’m curious to know why Lina chose him, Cole.
“Do you remember your first?” I ask quietly.
Her eyes lift to mine. There’s no surprise there. She gets what I’m asking. If it was him.
“You’re asking if it was Cole?” she clarifies gently.
I nod once. “I didn’t want to assume.”
“Yes,” she says after a moment. “It was him.”
A quiet unease works its way beneath my ribs. Not jealousy. Confirmation. Context snapping into place.
She folds her hands together on the table, anxious fingers fidgeting, deciding how far back she’s willing to go.
“It wasn’t how I thought it would be,” she says.
I don’t speak. I don’t move. I give her space.
She tells me she had planned to wait. Finish high school. Let her life stabilize before giving that part of herself to anyone. She says it plainly, without nostalgia, without bitterness.
She tells me about Cole. How he listened or at least did at first. She understands now that he mirrored what she wanted. He seemed safe at a time when safety was everything—after her mother left and passed, after the ground beneath her life shifted and never quite settled again.
As she talks, something rigid begins to form behind my ribs. She didn’t say he forced her. She explains that it wasn’t tender, but it wasn’t violent—only rushed. All raw teenage hunger and urgency. As if slowing down might give her time to reconsider.
My jaw tightens.
She tells me she didn’t see that she was handing him all the details of the love she wanted. That she’d unknowingly taught him how to become what she’d fall for—at least long enough to secure her.
That’s when I recognize it fully. Manipulation dressed up as romance.
She told herself it was normal. That love was intended to be intense. That wanting someone meant surrendering to them.
My pulse seems to decelerate. That familiar, threatening calm creeping in.
She directs her gaze towards me, meeting my eyes without flinching.
“I don’t regret loving,” she says. “But I regret believing someone else got to decide what that love was supposed to look like.”
I meet her eyes. Let her see that I hear her. That I understand more than she realizes.
She explains how he was different when they were first together. Kind, funny, attentive. How he wanted to take care of her. How she needed that after she swiftly became responsible for herself and her siblings.
I keep my face neutral. My hands stay flat on the table. Inside, something begins to stir.
She tells me about the pregnancy at seventeen. My jaw locks.
She talks about the abortion. About the guilt, the way he used it against her. How he told her the baby was his too, how he framed her pain as something she owed him for. How that guilt became leverage.
I don’t interrupt. But my pulse slackens in that perilous way it does when anger softens instead of flares.
This wasn’t love. This was conditioning.
She says the word narcissist, and I agree silently. I recognize the pattern instantly. The isolation, the destruction of self-worth, the carefully altered reality until the victim believes staying is safer than leaving.
My fingers curl against the wood of the table.
He told her no one else would want her after everything she’d been through. After what he convinced her she’d done wrong.
I swallow the lump sitting in my throat.
She stayed because she believed him.
She tells me about the second pregnancy. Thirteen years later. This time choosing to keep the baby and how she made it to eight months pregnant.
Then the accident. I’m already aware of the specifics, yet hearing it directly from her imparts a distinct awareness. More personal.
Something twists deep inside me at the sight of tears gathering in her eyes. I don’t trust myself to speak. If I do, I’ll say what I shouldn’t.
I want to fucking destroy him. In a slow, deliberate way that ensures he never gets close to her again. I breathe through it.
Lina finishes, her gaze steady despite everything she shared. She’s not broken. She’s not fragile. She’s forged.
I lean back, giving myself space to control what’s on my face. But I don’t soften my voice when I speak.
“I’m sorry you went through that.” I continue. “It was never your job to comfort him for the damage he caused.”
My anger sharpens, but it doesn’t spill. It focuses.
“What he did to you wasn’t love,” I say. “It was ownership. Oppression. And you broke out of it.”
I maintain eye contact with her, letting her see the truth in my eyes.
“And anyone who thinks they’re entitled to your body, your choices, or your future…” I pause, deliberately. “…is making a catastrophic mistake.”
I don’t say Cole’s name. I don’t have to.
Because the fury is there. In my posture, in the restraint, in the promise I don’t voice aloud.
And as Lina sits across from me, still upright after everything she’s sustained, I am sure of one thing: No one ever gets to hurt her like that again. Because she’s strong enough to take care of it herself without my help.
“I’m sorry,” Lina says softly after a moment. “I didn’t mean to make dinner so…heavy.”
I observe her, and nod in disbelief.
“Don’t apologize,” I tell her. “Not for that. Ever.” My voice stays calm, but I mean every word. “I appreciate you trusting me with what you shared.”
She exhales and I hold her gaze, letting her know I’m here.
Once the moment crests, I stand and start gathering plates before the moment can tip back into something too fragile. Routine helps. Motion helps. I stack dishes, scrape plates, carry them to the sink.
“I can do that later,” she says, already moving to stand.
I glance over my shoulder and give a small nod. “I’ve got it.”
She hesitates but relents, perching on the counter instead. Legs swinging slightly, hands braced behind her. Relaxed, indicating she’s not used to being told to rest.
“Tell me something lighter,” I say, turning on the water. “How did you and Val come up with the bakery-bookstore idea?”
Her face brightens.
“Oh,” she says, smiling. “That’s actually a good story.”
I listen as I wash dishes, the sound of running water grounding me while her voice fills the space. She talks about late-night conversations, shared exhaustion, half-joking ideas that slowly turned serious. About loving books and food and community and wanting a place that seemed warm and cozy.
“We wanted a place that didn’t rush you out the door. Books, warm pastries, coffee…it made sense.”
I glance over at her as I dry a plate.
“It’s definitely my favorite place if you can’t tell by now,” I say.
She smiles. “I’m glad. It’s mine too.”
I return to the sink, carefully placing the last dish in the rack.
Mission accomplished.
After drying my hands on a towel, I lean against the counter across from her, letting the evening find its own rhythm. The weight of everything hasn’t disappeared, but it no longer feels impossible to carry.
This is better.
Stories. Shared space. A woman sitting on her counter, talking about building something meaningful with her best friend.
It seems…ordinary.
And after everything we both carry, that might be the most unexpected gift of the night.