Chapter 7 #2
She stares at her hands now, fingers picking at an invisible thread.
“My dad left first. Just… gone. No goodbye. No explanation that made sense to a kid.” She swallows.
“And then my mom—she was there, but not really. She loved me, I think. In her way. But she loved parties more. Loved not being alone.”
Her voice drops, almost a whisper. “She’d tuck me in, kiss my forehead, tell me to be a good girl. And I’d fall asleep thinking she was in the next room.”
She squeezes her eyes shut.
“And I’d wake up and the house would be dark. Empty. Quiet in that loud way. Music thumping somewhere down the block, people yelling, dogs barking. And I’d call for her. I’d cry and cry until my throat hurt.”
I stop breathing.
“Sometimes I’d grab my blankets and my stuffies and hide in the closet,” she says, like she’s describing the weather. “It felt smaller. Safer. Like if I took up less space, nothing bad could find me.”
She stops, swiping a tear.
“I never knew which nights she’d stay,” she goes on. “Or which mornings she’d stumble back in smelling like booze and weed, barely awake. Sometimes she wouldn’t make breakfast. Sometimes she wouldn’t pack my lunch. Sometimes I’d walk to the bus by myself.”
She looks up at me then, eyes glassy but fierce. “I was eight, Ethan. Eight. And it went on for years.”
My chest aches. Full. Cracked open.
“And I grew up,” she says quickly, like she’s afraid of lingering there. “I learned to be independent. I learned not to need anyone. I learned to be impressive and capable and fine.”
She huffs out a humorless laugh. “But when I sleep with you… when I fall asleep next to you…”
Her voice breaks.
“I know you’re going to stay all night,” she says. “I know when I wake up, you’ll still be there. And it makes me feel safe in a way I don’t know how to turn off.”
She wipes at her cheeks, frustrated now. “And that scares me. Because needing someone like that feels dangerous.”
I reach for her before I even think about it, cupping her face, thumbs warm against her tear-damp skin.
“Sage,” I say quietly. “Look at me.”
She does.
“You’re not weak for this,” I tell her. “You’re human. And what you went through—no kid should have had to survive that.”
Her lip trembles.
“And you’re not ‘that girl,’” I add. “You didn’t do anything wrong by wanting me home.”
She searches my face like she’s waiting for the catch. For the moment I pull away.
I don’t.
“I went out tonight because I thought you were okay,” I say honestly. “But if you’d texted me, I would’ve come home. No hesitation.”
Her breath stutters.
“I don’t ever want you sitting on a doorstep crying alone,” I continue. “Not on my watch.”
Something inside her gives way then. She presses her forehead to mine, hands gripping my shirt like I’m the only solid thing left.
“I didn’t want to trap you,” she whispers.
“You’re not a trap,” I say. “You’re a choice.”
That does it. She breaks, soft sobs against my chest, and I hold her like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like I’ve been doing it my whole life.
We stay like that until her breathing evens out, until the night quiets around us.
When she finally pulls back, eyes swollen but steadier, I stand and offer her my hand.
“Come inside,” I say. “Come to bed.” I lace my fingers through hers, solid and sure. “All night. And in the morning—I’ll still be there when you wake up.”
Her shoulders sag in relief.
And as I lead her inside, I know something fundamental has shifted—not because she needed me…
…but because she trusted me enough to tell me why.
Later, after I showed her with every part of my body and soul that I was in this— I stared at the ceiling and made my own confession.
“My dad was a drunk. He left.”
She looks at me.
“I take care of my mom,” I continue. “And my sister. I spend a lot of money fixing up my mom’s house. Credit cards. Home Depot. It’s a mess.”
She studies my face.
Our hands twisted together in the sheets.
“You never have to be ashamed of where you live. Or where you came from. Ever.”
She exhales, like something unhooks inside her, and leans back into me.
The streetlight hums. Summer passed three a.m. breathes around us.
And even with the doubts circling now—
even with the questions—
I know one thing with absolute certainty:
She’s not pretending to be someone else.
She’s protecting who she used to be.
Work runs late that Friday.
One of those nights where time just slides away from you—calls stacked on calls, a client who won’t stop talking, my BlackBerry buzzing even after I shut my computer down.
By the time I pull onto my block, it’s fully dark.
And there she is.
Sitting on the stoop.
Overnight bag at her feet.
Hair twisted up, sweat-darkened at the collar of her tank top like she walked fast to get here and then waited anyway.
My chest tightens.
I park and hurry over.
“Hey,” she says, smiling like nothing’s wrong.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” I say immediately, pulling her into me. “I got tied up at work.”
She presses her forehead into my chest. “I figured.”
No edge.
No accusation.
Just acceptance.
That almost makes it worse.
I unlock the door and we head upstairs, but halfway up I stop.
Something clicks into place.
I turn back, walk into my bedroom, open the desk drawer.
The spare key is exactly where it’s always been taped to the underside.
I take it out, step back to her, and press it into her palm.
She looks down.
Then up.
Eyes wide.
“For when I’m late,” I say. “Or when you get here before me. Spare key.” I kiss her lips before walking past her to take off my tie.
She doesn’t speak right away.
She just holds it—carefully, reverently—like I handed her something fragile.
Like it means more than it probably should.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower.”
She nods, still staring at the key.
“I’ll start dinner, babe.”
That word lands warm and easy. She’s happy. Glowing.
When I come back out, the apartment smells incredible—olive oil heating, garlic just starting to soften, something green and fresh hitting the pan.
She’s at the stove, barefoot, music low from the radio, completely at home in my space like it’s always been hers.
It hits me then—how good this feels.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just… solid.
“I hope you don’t have plans this weekend,” I say, grabbing a beer.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling.
“Tony wants to dock the boat at the Cape. Plymouth. Early sail tomorrow with the tide. He’s talking every weekend this summer.
Chris, Mark—the whole crew. Some of them will drive there so we can get back.
His Uncle rented Artemis’ slip out for an exorbitant amount of money so we needed to move her.
And well-Plymouth is perfect. No Cape Cod bridge traffic and we can sail to all the good spots. ”
“Are you kidding, babe? A weekend sailing on that yacht? They write tv shows about the life we actually get to live. Hell, yeah. But— I’ll need to go home and get more clothes after we eat. Specifically, my bikini.” She winks.
“Great I’ll drive you.”
Her face tightens.
Just for a second.
So fast I almost miss it.
Like a flicker.
Like I imagined it.
But it’s there.
A tiny pause.
A calculation.
Then—
“Okay.”
Easy.
Too easy.
And I’m weirdly surprised by how fast she agrees.
For weeks it’s been next time, it’s a mess, my roommate’s sick, you don’t want to smell what she cooks, trust me.
Every excuse delivered with a laugh and a kiss and suddenly I don’t care anymore.
But now?
Just… okay.
I tell myself that’s a good thing.
Maybe I’m the one being weird.
Maybe I’m the idiot for letting the guys get in my head.
Tony with his, You’ve never even seen her place?
Mark with, That’s kinda sketch, man.
Like they’re trying to poke holes in something that’s perfect.
Like they want me looking for problems.
Why am I looking for problems?
Everything’s good.
Everything’s more than good.
So I shake it off and drive.
The streets get quieter the farther west we go.
Less glass.
More brick.
Tree-lined sidewalks and old brownstones with iron railings and little potted plants on stoops. String lights draped between balconies like someone’s permanently hosting a dinner party.
It’s actually… kind of cute.
Warm.
Homey.
Not sketchy at all.
I glance over at her. “This is nice. Where’s the laundry and take out place?”
“Oh?” Her nose wrinkled. “I was just joking.”
Sage never jokes. But okay… Maybe she’s wealthier than me? And didn’t want to make me insecure?
“This is really nice.”
She smiles, small and secretive. “Yeah. It’s quiet.”
She directs me down one last street and points.
“That one.”
A clean brick building. Updated doors. Soft yellow lights glowing in the lobby.
Totally normal.
Totally safe.
I almost laugh at myself for ever wondering.
She hops out, walks up the steps, punches in a code like she’s done it a thousand times. The door buzzes open.
See?
Not mysterious.
Not shady.
Just… a building.
She turns back to me.
“Hey— can you wait here?”
“Yeah?”
“My roommate might be sleeping. She’s got this whole early-morning study thing. If we wake her, she’ll kill me.”
I grin. “That serious, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
She says it light, joking, but she’s already halfway inside.
“Five minutes,” she adds. “Promise.”
“Take your time,” I say.
She disappears into the lobby.
Door clicks shut.
Five minutes turns into ten.
Then fifteen.
Then thirty.
I lean back in the driver’s seat, windows cracked, late-summer air drifting in.
A dog barks somewhere down the block.
Someone laughs.
A TV flickers blue behind a curtain across the street.
Normal neighborhood stuff.
Still.
Thirty minutes for bikinis and clothes?
Maybe she’s packing more.
Maybe girls just… take longer.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the building doors.
Then—
Movement.
A woman comes down the steps across the street.
High heels.
Little black dress.
Walking a tiny white poodle.
For half a second my brain snags on it.
I know her.
Don’t I?
The hair.
The walk.
Chloe?
Sage’s friend Chloe?
I met her once. At that rooftop thing.
But—
No.
That’s stupid.
This is Boston.
There are like ten thousand women who look like that.
I’m not about to start seeing ghosts.
Still…
I check the rearview a second longer than I mean to.
The woman disappears around the corner.
My stomach does that tiny, weird drop.
Then I shake my head.
Jesus, Ethan.
What are you doing?
Why are you looking for something wrong?
Why are you trying to sabotage your own relationship?
Everything’s been perfect.
Perfect.
Boat nights. Music. Waking up next to her every morning.
She looks at you like you hung the moon.
And you’re out here inventing conspiracy theories because your friends got bored and planted doubts?
Get a grip.
You’re crazy.
The lobby door opens.
And there she is.
Big canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Hair slightly messy like she rushed. Smile bright and easy.
Like nothing in the world could possibly be strange.
“Miss me?” she asks, sliding into the passenger seat.
Immediately the car smells like her.
Coconut.
Wine.
Summer.
The weird tension in my chest dissolves like it was never there.
“Always,” I say.
And I mean it.
As I pull away from the curb, I don’t look back at the building.
Because there’s nothing to look at.
Right?