Chapter 61
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
mia
This will be the first time he’s used the fireplace since I arrived, and I’m more excited than any self-respecting adult should be about crackling flames and toasted marshmallows.
We’re stocking up for our night in—wine, cheese, wood, and the kind of quiet that promises more. Pres stacked the wood by size this morning, laid out blankets by the fireplace, even found the exact Barolo I raved about once in a voice note.
Preston takes me to this tiny charcuterie shop he found.
Twinkle lights tangled around hanging hams, a bell that chimes every time the door opens, and a shopkeeper who treats every salami as his legacy.
I already have crackers and baguettes peeking out of my tote, and next we’re heading to the cheese store where I plan to go absolutely bonkers.
The owner is a talker and a believer in endless samples. Preston listens with that intent look that makes people open up, like the man’s explaining philosophy instead of pork curing.
I lean into his side, and his arm comes around me automatically. His thumb slips under the waistband of my jeans, finding skin, the way he always does.
He makes me feel claimed without caging me.
I’m still not used to that kind of safety. But I adore it.
I rest my head against his shoulder. Above everything else in this store, his scent hits me first: bergamot and cedarwood.
Sharp, earthy, and entirely him. I’ve sniffed it straight from the bottle, and it never smells this good without his skin under it.
Even in this cured-meat cathedral, his is the only smell I can focus on.
I moan around another slice of something divine, and he squeezes my hip, half warning, half habit. The salesman chuckles, appearing delighted, and I giggle into my napkin. These meats don’t need a sales pitch; they’re all coming home with us.
Home.
That word lands heavier these days. More real. Every night I sleep in his bed, the place feels less borrowed.
Preston’s phone buzzes. “The hospital,” he says. He mumbles an apology, mouth full of bresaola—coppa? pancetta? whatever—and ducks out into the cold to take the call. His breath fogs against the glass, his hand gesturing as he speaks.
Then…
A name.
“Blake?” he says, facing the crowd, phone hanging useless at his side, and then he shouts it. “Blake!”
My world tilts.
He’s already moving, pushing through people, scanning the crowd outside, calling that name again—louder each time.
I don’t move.
I-I can’t.
For a heartbeat, I convince myself I misheard him. It’s a patient. A different Blake. Give me a reason, universe. Any reason. I rub my eyes, chase logic, but his voice cuts sharper.
And then he’s running.
Air abandons my lungs. The cold rushes in with a new customer.
He runs. I stay put.
Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s shock, maybe it’s self-preservation. Because if I move, I might shatter.
I stand there, bag heavy in my hand, bread tilting out, the doorbell chiming as people come and go.
He promised me forever, and I’m standing alone in a deli, wondering if it expired already.
My throat burns. My vision blurs.
He ran after her.
I let the bag slip from my hand, murmur a thank-you to the kind old man behind the counter, and step out into the cold.
The wind slices through my open coat. I keep my eyes on the sidewalk because everything else hurts to look at. The world outside is too alive for what’s happening inside me. My fingers go numb around the keys in my pocket.
He ran after her.
Lily’s laugh from when she wins at Go Fish rings in my ears. I brace myself on someone's fence.
The words loop in my head, steady as a heartbeat, round and round. I try to unhear them, but they just keep echoing, feeding off my disbelief. Every “trust me” he’s ever said starts rewinding, unraveling.
He left me behind, without a word. And ran after her.
I walk, unsure of where my legs are taking me. Toward survival and surrender. Somewhere safe—if that even exists anymore.
When I finally reach the house, my hands are trembling so hard I almost drop the keys. His keys. I open the door and step into the quiet. The picture Lily drew of the three of us laughs at my na?veté.
I’m packing it anyway. She made that for me.
My chest caves entirely.
I should wait. Ask. Breathe. But the part of me that still believed people stay—the part that waited too many times for explanations that never came—lost its pulse. I convince myself to call him. Shaky fingers press the green button but it rings until it goes to voicemail.
Pragmatic, survival-mode Mia takes the wheel and she works on autopilot.
So I pack. The things that are mine, or half mine.
The dress I wore the night he told me he couldn’t imagine life without me.
The book he gave me with his note tucked between the pages—Read this when I can’t wake up next to you.
My hands shake harder.
This isn’t me overreacting. This is muscle memory. My body remembering what it means to be left behind.
Every empty drawer I close sounds final. The suitcase zipper answers with a low, merciless rasp.
I crumple onto the bed, and the first sob hits sharp enough to hurt. After that, I can’t stop. I press my face into his pillow, and it smells like everything I thought I’d finally earned.
It’s hard to breathe. I want to scream. Laugh hysterically. I want to be cold and not care. I want to be the kind of woman who can make a joke, call Callie and say, “You won’t believe the shit that just happened.”
But I can’t. I’m not that woman.
It mattered. He mattered. I was a fool to think the universe would ever let something good stay. And I had settled with that truth—until he came around, surpassing book boyfriends, dangling promises I never dared want out loud.
The door opens downstairs.
I freeze.
“Mia?”
He’s breathless, sounding raw, his worry filling the hall.
Even my name sounds broken from his lips.
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to erase the tears, but they won’t stop coming.
The footsteps are now on the stairs. Fast. Desperate.
The bedroom door swings open, and there he is—face flushed, hair windblown, chest heaving as if he’s sprinted miles.
He stops midway when he sees the suitcase.
“Mia, what—”
“Don’t.” I raise a finger. “Please don’t. You’ve made your choice.”
He enters the room anyway, words spilling out before I can build a wall high enough to protect me.
“I did. I choose you. Every day, every time. What are you talking about?”
“Stop right there.” He does. I laugh—a small, shattered sound. “You ran after her. You saw her, and you ran after her.”
“It wasn’t her,” he says, voice almost breaking. “It wasn’t Blake.”
“Do you think that matters? Or makes it any less awful? You thought it was. And you left me behind to run after her.” Fresh tears burn, making me angrier, pushing reason further away.
“No.” He pauses, eyes desperate. “I know that’s how it might’ve sounded like. And looked like.” He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing. “I won’t pretend I know how that felt. I didn’t have time to explain, Mia, but I wasn’t running after her.”
I throw my head back and laugh, the sound manic and condescending. He says it with unblinking certainty, as though I didn’t watch him bolt.
“Sure looked like it from where I was standing. Alone.”
“I was running after my divorce papers. I was running after Lily’s half-brother.”
Everything in me misfires. Humor gone, anger paused.
Oh, fuck. The note Blake left—the baby isn’t yours—it surges back, a ghost I forgot to fear. The boy who shares Lily’s blood.
“Oh.” Heat spikes behind my eyes for a completely different reason. “Oh, God. I didn’t even—”
He takes a step closer, then rethinks, staying put. His eyes are wet and wild. “Mia, I didn’t go after her. I went after what she owes Lily. After the life I want with you.”
Compassion grapples with the instinct to protect myself.
“I’ve been working with Liam’s lawyers for weeks,” he says, softer now. “We can finish it without her, but if she’s found and signs the papers, it’s clean. Faster. I wasn’t chasing her, I swear, Mia. I was trying to end her part in my life. I was choosing us. I’ll always choose us.”
I’m exhausted, heavy bones pinning me to bed. Something in me gives. The ache knots with hope. I owe it to us to figure this out. To talk it out, at least.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” My voice cracks. “Why just run?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he says. “I saw a chance and took it. I thought if I could fix everything before it reached you, I could spare you… this. This mess isn’t a part of the life I promised you.
” There’s a big exhale before he continues.
“I should’ve grabbed your hand and pulled you with me.
Explained everything while we ran together. ”
He drops to his knees, keeping that careful distance, his palms open. “I’m so sorry. For making you doubt. For making you relive that kind of fear. I hate that someone taught you that love runs when it gets hard.”
I want to stay angry, but his voice, God, his voice, it keeps shaking.
“You asked me to trust you,” I whisper. “And I did. But now…”
“Nothing’s changed.” He’s firm, but a tinge of despair clings to the edges.
“I’m here, telling you the truth, as always.
I was in an impossible situation, and I handled it badly.
While I was running, all I could think was, this is it.
I’ll have my divorce, and I get to marry the woman I love.
” A half smile tugs at one corner of his mouth; hope wobbles there.
He inhales, lifts his head, eyes locked on mine.
“You can trust me, Mia. And I’ll spend every day proving you’re right to. ”
The quiet hums. Fragile, trembling.
His apology hangs between us, too raw to sidestep. Every unscripted word vibrates through the room.
Truth is, I believe him. Of course I do. This man has never done me wrong.