Chapter 16 #2
He rubs his face. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat this. Shit’s bad.”
My collar is burning now. My pulse loud in my ears.
I nod, because what else can I do?
“Get me options,” Jim says. “Fixes. Stories. Something I can sell upstairs.”
The meeting breaks, but nobody moves right away. Chairs scrape slowly. Papers gather without urgency. The energy is… grim.
Back in my office, I shut the door and sit down hard.
New York.
Corporate scrutiny.
And everything with Sage already feels like it’s balancing on a fault line.
My BlackBerry lights up again.
Sage.
I hesitate.
Then I answer.
“Hey,” I say, already exhausted. “Shit’s really going bad at work, babe.”
“Where have you been?” she snaps immediately. “I’ve been calling you all day.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s been—”
“You just disappear,” she cuts in. “Like I don’t exist.”
I close my eyes. “I’ve been in meetings all day. Emergency ones.”
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end. “So what, I’m just supposed to sit here and wait?”
“No,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m telling you what’s going on.”
“What’s going on?” she demands.
I swallow. “We got called into New York. Manhattan. Corporate.”
Silence.
Then—“What?”
“Next week,” I say. “I’ll be gone for a while. I don’t even know if I can see you before I go.”
And that’s when it happens.
Her voice spikes—high, sharp, panicked. Words tumble over each other, fast and loud, like she’s trying to grab onto something and can’t find a handle.
“You’re leaving? You didn’t even ask me—why didn’t you tell me sooner—this is exactly what I mean—”
“Sage,” I say, pulling the phone away from my ear slightly. “Sage, stop.”
She doesn’t.
“I need you here,” she says, voice cracking. “I need you with me. Every time you go somewhere without me—”
“I have to go to New York,” I cut in, louder now. “I could lose my job.”
That finally slows her.
“You’re being dramatic,” she says.
My chest tightens.
“Dramatic?” I repeat. “This is my livelihood. This is everything.”
She starts again—questions, accusations, fears spilling out in a rush. I barely hear the words anymore, just the sound of them.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, phone still pressed to my ear.
My heart is pounding now.
If I lose my job—
Ma.
My sister.
Our family home.
My condo.
My bills.
My life.
I feel it all at once, heavy and real and terrifying.
And the worst part?
I haven’t saved anything to soften the fall.
Because I’ve been wining and dining her. Trips. Dinners. Weekends. Little surprises that didn’t feel little at the time.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m carrying a balance on my credit card I can’t pay off in full.
That realization hits harder than Jim’s words ever could.
“Sage,” I say finally, voice low, controlled with effort. “I need you to calm down.”
“I am calm,” she snaps.
“You’re not,” I say. “And I can’t do this right now.”
Her breathing is loud in my ear.
“So you’re choosing work over me,” she says.
I close my eyes.
“I’m choosing survival,” I say quietly. “If I lose this job, everything falls apart.”
There’s a pause. Then, softer—but no less intense—“You promised me you wouldn’t disappear.”
“I’m not disappearing,” I say. “I’m trying to hold everything together.”
Silence again.
When she speaks, her voice is sweet now. Almost fragile.
“I just miss you,” she says. “I just want to be with you.”
My anger drains, leaving only exhaustion.
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
We hang up without resolving anything.
I sit there long after, phone in my hand, the office dimming as the sun slides down behind the buildings.
Work is imploding.
My relationship is on life support just waiting for me to pull the plug.
My finances are stretched thinner than I realized.
And standing there, tie loosened, jaw clenched, I finally admit the thought I’ve been dodging for weeks:
And I don’t know which part of my life is about to blow first.
The next workday hits me like a hammer.
My head is pounding—full-on migraine, the kind that sits behind your eyes and pulses with your heartbeat. Fifteen hours yesterday. Meetings stacked on meetings. Sage calling, crying, apologizing, then circling right back to accusing. I barely slept. Coffee isn’t touching it.
I’m staring at my desk when the phone rings.
“Ethan O’Connell,” a voice says, familiar and grinning even through the receiver. “Holy shit, you still alive?”
I smile despite myself. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Ben,” he says. “Bass player. Roommate. Savior of your GPA sophomore year.”
I laugh quietly. “Jesus. Ben. Where the hell have you been?”
“In town,” he says. “Band’s playing tonight. Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab a beer. Relive our glory days.”
I wince, rubbing my temple. “Honestly? Live bar music sounds like actual torture right now.”
“No worries,” he says easily. “If you change your mind, I’ll text—sorry—email you the address.”
“Do that,” I say. “Good to hear your voice, man.”
We hang up, and I sit there a long moment, staring at the wall.
By the end of the day, the migraine hasn’t gone away—but something else has crept in. Restlessness. That trapped feeling. Like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks and just noticed.
Sage has called three more times. I don’t answer.
And then I think—a cold beer and old friends might be exactly what I need.
So I go.
The bar is loud in that early-2000s way—smoke clinging to the ceiling, bodies packed tight, cheap beer and sweat and feedback humming through the room. The band’s already playing when I push inside.
Ben spots me instantly.
“Hart!” he shouts, hopping down from the stage to pull me into a hug. “Look at you, man. Corporate as hell.”
“Fuck you,” I say, smiling. “You smell like a tour bus.”
“Still better than cubicles.”
I grab a beer and lean against the wall, watching them play. And then—halfway through the set—Ben waves me over.
“No way,” I mouth.
He grins and holds out his bass.
Something stirs in my chest. Old muscle memory. Old fire.
I shake my head once. He keeps holding it out.
And then I’m on stage.
The weight of the bass settles into my hands like it never left. The strings hum under my fingers. The first note vibrates straight through my bones.
It’s like an old lover.
That part of me—the one that died quietly when I put on suits and smiles and became a corporate yes-man—comes roaring back to life.
We play.
One song turns into three. Three into six. I don’t think. I don’t calculate. I just play. Sweat dripping. Head down. Music pouring out of me like it’s been waiting years for permission.
And then—mid-song—I look up.
My heart stops.
Across the crowded bar, under flickering lights, is a face I know better than my own reflection.
Erin.
She’s wearing a white sash. A plastic tiara. A bachelorette crown tilted slightly sideways in her hair.
For a split second, the years collapse.
She could have been my bride.
The song ends. Applause crashes around me. I set the bass down and walk straight toward her.
She laughs when she sees me—bright, familiar, unguarded—and throws her arms around my neck.
“Ethan,” she says. “Oh my god.”
“Erin,” I breathe, holding her tight.
She pulls back, eyes shining. “You live in Boston now?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
She nods. “Couple years. I’m getting married.”
“Yeah?” I smile. “Lucky guy.”
“A pediatric surgeon,” she says proudly. “He’s wonderful.”
“I’m happy for you,” I say—and I mean it.
She laughs. “Bachelorette party on a Tuesday, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “This is actually my third. Coworkers insisted.”
My brows lift. “Three?”
“We did Vegas for the real one,” she says, laughing. “I was a good girl.”
I grin. “You always were, Erin.”
I brush my thumb over her cheek without thinking. Old affection. Old tenderness.
She studies me, then smiles slowly. “How about you? Married yet?”
“No,” I say. “Still… figuring it out.”
She tilts her head. “You look amazing, by the way.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. “Don’t tell anyone. My highlights cost me two-fifty a month.”
She bursts out laughing.
I buy her a drink. We talk like old friends—careers, cities, life paths that forked and never crossed again.
And for a moment, everything feels… easy.
Then it happens.
That prickle.
That unmistakable awareness between my shoulder blades.
I turn.
And there, just inside the bar, is Chloe.
Sage’s friend.
Watching me.
Watching us.
Something heavy drops into the pit of my stomach.
Because I know, with sudden, brutal clarity—
I am absolutely fucked.
I finish my drink with Erin and pull her into one last hug.
“I’m really happy for you,” I tell her, and I mean it. No bitterness. No ghosts. Just gratitude for what we were and relief for what we’re not.
She squeezes me once more. “You deserve something good too, Ethan.”
I watch her disappear back into the crowd—laughing, crown crooked, surrounded by women who adore her—and then I start scanning the bar.
It doesn’t take long.
Chloe’s near the side wall, drink in hand, posture stiff like she’s been bracing for something. When she sees me coming, her eyes flick up—nervous. Measuring.
She lifts her glass slightly. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say. “You okay?”
She shrugs. “Who was that?”
I don’t dodge it. Don’t soften it.
“My old college girlfriend,” I say. “Bachelorette party. I wished her well. That’s it.”
Chloe takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving my face.
“Can I buy you one?” I offer, already knowing the answer.
“No,” she says. “I’m heading out.”
“Okay.”
She pauses, then gives me a look I don’t like. Not angry. Not accusing.
Concerned.
I stand there for a second after she leaves, telling myself—I did nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong.
So why does it feel like I’m about to get my teeth kicked in?
I say goodbye to Ben, thank him for dragging that part of me back to life for an hour. “Next time you’re in town,” I tell him, “drop me a line.”
I’ve had too many beers to drive. No question. I flag down a yellow cab, sink into the back seat, forehead against the glass as the city blurs by.
I expect my BlackBerry to buzz. A missed call. An angry email. Something.
It’s silent.
The T ride home felt longer than usual.
My building was dark when I got there.
I unlocked the door.
The lamp clicked on.
She was sitting there.
In the dark.
Waiting.
“Where were you?”
I froze.
“Out,” I said carefully. “I told you I had plans.”
“No, you told me work was insane. That you’d be there all night. Is leaving for New York a lie, too?”
She stood slowly and walked toward me like she was inspecting evidence.
“At least you don’t smell like perfume,” she said. “Lift your collar.”
“Sage,” I snapped. “Really?”
“Lipstick leaves marks.”
“I spend every night with you,” I said. “You honestly think I’d cheat?”
She smiled. “Not this past week.”
“Jesus, Sage. I’m not doing this tonight.”
I didn’t fall into the trap. Didn’t fight back.
“You were out drinking without me.”
“I was with my buddy. His band’s in town.”
“Why couldn’t I go?”
Because I needed air.
Because I needed space.
Because everything with you feels like a test.
Instead I said, “Because I wanted one night. Just one.”
The words slipped out before I could catch them.
Her eyes flashed.
“So I’m a burden now?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
The air tightened. Familiar. Charged.
Usually this was where it flipped. Where the anger blurred into heat.
Not tonight.
“I’m done,” I said quietly. “I’m showering.”
Under the water, I leaned my forehead against the tile and breathed.
I can’t do this forever.
Sage stood by the window, wrapped around herself like she was freezing.
I watched her and had a thought that scared me with how clear it felt.
I can’t bring her home to my mother.
My mom would lose her mind.
Work was about to get worse. Longer hours. More pressure. Summer ending.
No more drifting days.
Was this ever meant to survive the fall?
Or was it just a season?
Something inside me folded.
Then the screaming started.
“Chloe just called me. Your ex, Erin? Did you plan on seeing her?”
Fast. Loud. Wild.
A lamp shattered. Glass everywhere.
“Stop,” I kept saying. “Please. Stop.”
She didn’t hear me.
More crashing. More yelling.
Neighbors pounding on walls.
Someone shouting about calling the cops.
Then the knock.
Hard.
Official.
I opened the door.
“Everything’s fine,” I said too fast.
She appeared beside me instantly, calm as glass.
“I tripped,” she told them. “Knocked over a lamp. Hurt my foot. I yelled. I’m so sorry.”
The cops looked past us.
Broken glass. Furniture overturned. Me half-dressed and dripping.
No blood.
No story.
“Keep it down,” they said.
Door closed.
Silence.
Worse than the screaming.
Then she collapsed into tears.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sorry.”
She cleaned. Fixed. Tried to kiss me.
But there was nothing left in me to meet her halfway.
Eventually she fell asleep on top of me, arms locked around my chest like a seatbelt.
I stared at the ceiling.
Pinned.
This wasn’t passion anymore.
This was something else.
And I didn’t know how to end it without detonating everything.
Morning came like nothing had happened.
Coffee. Eggs. Toast.
Sage barefoot in my T-shirt like she’d always lived there.
Too normal.
Too easy.
“I love you,” she said at the curb. “I just… lose my shit because I love you so much.”
I nodded.
But something inside me had already stepped back.
Dinner that night was quiet. Candlelit. Soft.
She told me everything.
The engagement. The infertility. The father she never knew.
The way it broke her.
I believed her.
I felt for her.
Anyone would.
But as she held my hand across the table, eyes searching mine for reassurance, one truth settled in heavy and immovable:
Trauma explains behavior.
It doesn’t excuse it.
She’d been hurt.
Deeply.
And she was still dangerous when she was afraid.
I kissed her knuckles gently.
“We’ll take things slow,” I said.
She smiled.
Relieved.
But even as the conversation drifted lighter, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d just been handed a map to a minefield.
And I was already standing in it.
I knew what I should do.
I just wasn’t ready to be the kind of man who did it.
Maybe I was born to be a man who fixed up broken things. I never saw myself getting broken in the process. It was never on my radar until tonight. Until the police. Until I picked up broken shards of glass on my bedroom floor.
The business trip to New York was breathing room between us. And I needed air before she suffocated me. I would end this but needed to figure out how,