Chapter 7
ETHAN
That week, she basically lived at my place.
Not officially.
But unofficially?
Yeah.
Her toothbrush shows up.
Her shampoo sneaks into my shower like it pays rent.
Her shoes end up kicked under my bed like they’ve always belonged there.
Every night it’s the same rhythm.
Dinner somewhere cheap or we cooked in. Trying new recipes and falling in love to the smell of frying vegetables and the sound of The Dave Matthews Band playing on my favorite station. I told her chicken piccata was my favorite low carb, high protein meal.
She perfected it.
Made it with love and decorative green garnish.
She noticed the little things. How I cooked my eggs, how many splashes of creamer I liked in my coffee. How I tucked the corners of my blanket under the mattress when I made my bed.
No one ever noticed or cared about the details. And the details are what always made me tic.
After we cooked and cleaned up my tiny kitchen we’d go for walks hand in hand in the city or rent some stupid movie we both knew we’d never finish.
Her curled into me like gravity only works in my direction.
Wake up.
Coffee.
Gym.
Work.
Repeat.
Too easy.
Like we skipped the awkward middle and jumped straight into the part couples don’t hit until year three.
And I loved it.
Which is exactly why what happened last night bugs me.
We were brushing our teeth side by side when I said it, casual.
“Hey — why don’t we go to your place tomorrow night?”
She paused.
Just for a second.
Barely noticeable.
Then she spit, rinsed, shrugged.
“I’ve gotta work late anyway. And my roommate’s not feeling great again.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s a grad student. Always studying. She’d just be this sad third wheel while we hang out.”
She laughed like it’s no big deal.
Like it’s obvious.
I nod. “Makes sense.”
Then, trying to sound offhand: “Where do you live again?”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Between Harvard and BC. Kind of Allston-ish? It’s mostly commercial down there. My roommate’s place from college.”
That is plausible. I’ve driven through there. Laundromats. Pizza spots. Old buildings over storefronts. Surely she’s not married or seeing someone else when she’s spent every night with me since we met.
“It’s nothing like this place,” she added quickly. “Trust me. Third-floor walk-up above a dry cleaner and take out place. Two bedrooms. Seventies kitchen. You’re not missing anything.”
She said it like a joke.
But something about the way she stacks the details—
Too many.
Too fast.
Like she’s selling me on not going.
I smiled anyway. “I don’t care what it looks like.”
“I know.”
Then she kissed me.
And just like that, the moment dissolved.
Later, when we’re lying in bed, her head on my chest, I stare at the ceiling and think about it.
It’s not weird.
Lots of people are private.
Lots of people don’t want someone seeing their messy apartment.
Hell, half my friends would die before letting someone see their laundry pile.
Still.
I know where Chris lives.
Mark.
Tony.
Beth.
I’ve met their friends. Their coworkers. Their exes.
Their whole lives.
And Sage?
It’s just…
Her.
Always just her. Except for the one time he brought Chloe.
Showing up like she stepped out of thin air.
And disappearing the same way.
She shifts in her sleep and tightens her arm around me.
Like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
My chest softens instantly.
I kiss her hair.
Stop thinking.
Because I’m falling for her.
And the last thing I want to do is start looking for cracks in something that feels this good.
Thursday nights are sacred.
At least, they used to be.
I’m halfway to Tony’s place when my BlackBerry vibrates on the passenger seat. I glance down at the screen.
From: Sage
You’re really going?
I smile before I even open it. That alone should probably tell me something.
I thumb out a reply at a red light.
Me:
Guys’ night. Poker. Same one I told you about.
A beat.
Sage:
I know. I just didn’t realize it was tonight.
Me:
It’s Thursday.
A longer pause this time.
Sage:
Right. Of course it is.
I tighten my grip on the wheel.
Me:
I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow. Dinner. Somewhere nice.
The reply takes longer.
Sage:
Okay. But email me when you get home.
Me:
Promise.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Like she’s typing and deleting. Memorizing instead of sending.
Sage:
Have fun.
I pull into Tony’s building, glass and steel rising out of the neighborhood like it doesn’t belong there. I park, grab the six-pack I promised, and ride the elevator up with a guy who smells like cologne and money.
The doors open to noise.
Poker chips clacking. Music low and lazy. Someone already yelling about a bad beat. Tony’s place smells like wings, pizza, and whatever overpriced candle he’s burning to feel “centered.”
“ETHAN!” Tony booms. “You made it!”
“Barely,” I say, dropping the beer on the counter.
The rooftop doors are open. String lights flicker against the darkening sky. Summer’s close enough to taste.
We settle around the table. Cards shuffle. Wings disappear. Someone spills a beer and doesn’t even apologize.
And then—like clockwork—it starts.
“So,” Jake says, leaning back. “How long’s it been now?”
“Almost three weeks, since they met,” Tony answers for me, smirking. “And he’s already insufferable.”
“Can’t stop glowing,” Mark adds. “Haven’t met a single one of her friends.”
“What about, Chloe?” I countered.
Tony snorts so hard beer nearly comes out his nose.
“Chloe doesn’t count.”
“Why not?” Jake asks.
Tony leans back like he’s about to give sworn testimony.
“Because Chloe is forty-one. Divorced. Corporate ice queen.”
The table stills.
“…what?” I say.
“We hooked up,” Tony continues. “Boat. Blanket. Vibes.”
“And?” Mark asks.
“And nothing,” Tony says. “No feelings. No follow-up. She used me.”
Jake wheezes. “You got used?”
“She’s a cougar,” Tony insists. “A full-on cougar. I don’t even know how Sage knows her. I asked. Sage wouldn’t say. Just smiled like it was classified.”
“She’s 41?” Mark was stunned.
“Yup,” Tony swigs his beer, “loaded too— takes care of herself probably had a lot of help with her plastic surgeon.”
We’re all laughing again.
For a moment, it’s easy.
Laughter rolls around the table.
“I’m just saying,” Jake continues, “she’s always around. Never brings anyone.”
“Maybe she’s normal,” I say.
“That’s suspicious on its own,” Mark says.
Tony shuffles the deck. “I’ve got it. She’s married.”
“Oh, definitely,” Jake says. “Husband’s overseas. Military.”
“Or oil,” Mark adds.
“Engaged,” Tony says. “Italy. Big ring.”
“Sugar daddy,” someone throws in. “Private jet. NDA.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You guys are insane.”
Tony looks at me. “Are we?”
Cards slide. Chips click.
Jake tilts his head. “Serious question. You ever been to her place?”
I hesitate.
Just long enough.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “I’ve never seen it. She won’t let me go over.”
The table goes quiet.
Like someone cut the music.
Tony stops dealing. Mark’s grin fades. Jake’s eyebrows lift.
“Dude,” Mark says slowly. “That’s not nothing.”
“What if she’s married?” Jake says.
“Or engaged,” Tony adds.
“Or is with some European businessman,” Mark says. “And you’re the side piece.”
My stomach tightens.
“I don’t think—”
Tony raises a hand. “I’m not saying she is. I’m saying… be careful.”
The cards move again, but the rhythm’s off now. The jokes don’t land the same.
I still have fun. Mostly.
But the thought sticks.
She hasn’t stepped into this part of my life.
Not because she can’t.
Because she hasn’t.
When the game breaks up and I ride the elevator down alone, I pull out my BlackBerry.
No new messages.
I email her anyway.
Me:
Home soon. Miss you.
For the first time since we met, I don’t wonder what she’s hiding.
I wonder what she’s protecting.
It’s almost two in the morning when I turn onto my block.
The street is quiet, late-summer quiet, the kind that feels borrowed. Then I see her.
Sage is sitting on the bottom step of my stoop, knees pulled in, arms wrapped tight. Hair twisted up and falling loose. Bare feet on stone.
Her eyes are red.
“Hey,” she says, voice raw.
I sit beside her without a word, pull her into me. She folds instantly, face pressed into my chest like she’s been holding it together all night and finally ran out.
“I didn’t want to sleep without you,” she whispers.
We sit there, quiet, my hand moving slow on her back.
Eventually she exhales and pulls away.
“I lied to you,” she says suddenly.
My chest tightens.
“I’m not perfect. I’m not some super strong alpha woman in killer wedges.”
“You kinda are—”
She shakes her head, a small, broken smile flickering and dying fast. “No. I pretend to be. I’m good at pretending.”
That lands harder than I expect.
She rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand, like she’s embarrassed by the evidence of herself. The porch light throws soft gold over her skin, over the bones of her shoulders pulled tight like armor.
“I don’t usually do this,” she says. “I don’t… need people like this.”
I don’t say anything. I’ve learned—fast—that Sage doesn’t need fixing. She needs space to tell the truth.
“I was fine when you left,” she continues. “I told myself I was fine. You were just out with the guys. Normal. Healthy. Not a big deal.” Her voice wobbles. “But then it got late. And then later. And I kept thinking, don’t call him, don’t be that girl.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “And then my brain did that thing.”
I know that thing. The spiral. The quiet terror that doesn’t look like panic until it’s already swallowed you whole.
“I started thinking about how easy it is for people to leave,” she says. “How they always say they’ll be back. And sometimes they are. And sometimes you wake up and the house is empty.”
Something sharp twists behind my ribs.