Chapter 17
Desmond Coyle?
It’s been a month—maybe more—since that money talk in the kitchen. Long enough that things have settled into something that feels less like a temporary setup and more like… hell, I don’t know. A life. A rhythm. Something real.
Brielle takes the money I leave now. Sort of. Technically.
She doesn’t take all of it. Never once has she grabbed the full amount like she’s supposed to. Half the time she leaves a couple bills behind, tucked under the coaster like she thinks I won’t notice, and the other half she uses it on shit that isn’t even for her.
Formula. Diapers. Fresh fruit Leon likes to mash into the table. A new set of dish towels. A baby gate I didn’t even think we needed, but apparently did, because Leon’s crawling like a damn Roomba with a death wish.
She’ll come home from the store with a bag of groceries, hand me the receipt like she’s showing me proof she didn’t overspend, and I swear, sometimes it knocks the air out of me.
I don’t even remember the last time Lizzie didn’t whine about money.
Whole marriage felt like a balancing act between her “needs” and the number of extra shifts I could squeeze out of a week.
“Necessary expense” to her meant a cart full of useless shit from Amazon or some overpriced makeup palette she used twice.
And when I’d say we had bills, or daycare wasn’t getting cheaper, or maybe she could hold off—she’d go quiet.
Or loud. Depending on the day. Either way, I’d always end up working more.
But Brielle?
She won’t even buy herself a new pair of socks without checking three prices and telling me she “doesn’t really need them yet.”
And on top of it all—she’s been busting her ass looking for a job. A remote one. Something she can do while still taking care of Leon, still keeping the house running smoother than it ever has, still making my life easier in ways I don’t even know how to thank her for.
She’ll sit at the kitchen table during Leon’s nap with my old laptop open, brows furrowed, typing out applications like she’s on a mission to prove herself to someone. Maybe to me. Maybe to herself.
She prints out résumés, rewrites cover letters, does those little online assessments that make even me feel stupid just looking over her shoulder.
And every time I walk by, she looks up like she’s been caught doing something wrong.
Like she thinks I’ll tell her to stop.
Like she thinks I want her dependent on me.
The hell would I want that for?
I want her steady. Confident. Able to stand on her own two feet even if she doesn’t ever need to stand away from me.
I lean on the doorway sometimes, watching her work with that determined little wrinkle between her brows. And it hits me—how different she is from anything I’ve ever known.
She’s not using me.
She’s not draining me.
She’s not sitting pretty waiting for someone else to carry the load.
She’s building something. For herself. For Leon. For us.
And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t make me want her even more.
Not just in the ways that have me losing my mind when she climbs into my lap at night.
But in the quiet ways too. The ways that look like partnership.
It’s a Thursday, sky’s been dumping rain on Ironvale for three days straight, and I’m an idiot who didn’t take the damn umbrella Brielle told me—twice—to grab off the hook.
So I end up sprinting from the truck to the building, boots splashing through puddles like I’m wading through a swamp, jacket soaked clean through, hair dripping down my neck. By the time I hit the stairs, I’m cursing myself out and shivering like a dog left out in a storm.
But the second I open the apartment door?
Chaos.
Good chaos.
Warm chaos.
The kind that hits you in the chest before your brain even catches up.
Music is blasting—something upbeat, poppy, the kind Brielle pretends she doesn’t like but knows the lyrics to anyway. And she’s in the middle of the living room, spinning barefoot on the carpet with Leon in her arms like she’s the sun and he’s the happiest planet in her orbit.
She twirls, hair whipping around her face, tank top sliding off one shoulder, sweatpants rolled at her waist.
Leon’s tiny fists are grabbing at the air, his laugh echoing louder than the damn speaker.
Every time she dips him low he shrieks like he’s on a roller coaster and she beams like he just handed her the moon.
And there I am—standing in the doorway soaked to the damn bone, boots dripping on the rug, staring like a man who just walked into the wrong life. Or maybe the right one and he just hasn’t accepted it yet.
She spins again, catches sight of me, and her whole face lights up.
“Babe!” she squeals—actually squeals—and comes running. Full speed. Giddy. Jumping up and down like she’s seven and it’s Christmas morning.
Before I can even warn her, she slams into me with a hug, Leon squished between us, both of them getting soaked from my jacket.
“I got it! I got it!” she bursts out, bouncing on her toes.
“I’m soaked, you’re—” I try, because her shirt is already sticking to her from the water I dragged in.
“It’s okay!” she cuts in, eyes bright as hell. “I got it, Des!”
“Got what?” I ask, peeling my wet hair off my forehead, confused as shit but catching her energy whether I want to or not.
“That interview I did last week!” she says, breath coming fast, smile so big it almost shakes. “They called me! Said I can get started on Monday!”
I blink. Hard.
“You’re serious?” I ask, voice low because I’m trying to keep up with the whiplash of her excitement.
“Yes!” she laughs, actually bouncing again. “They want me. Like… they actually want me. I got the job, Desmond!”
She’s grinning so wide her cheeks must hurt. Leon is giggling like he knows exactly what’s happening, grabbing her jaw with both hands and patting her face like he’s celebrating too.
Something in my chest unclenches. Slow. Heavy. Like a fist finally letting go.
“Baby,” I mutter, breath dumping out of me in one long exhale I didn’t even know I was holding, “that’s… that’s incredible.”
She beams even harder, eyes shining like she swallowed a damn star.
“And it’s remote!” she rushes out, bouncing Leon a little because she can’t keep still.
“They’re sending me a company laptop and I know it’s not much—like it’s a call center thing, customer support or something, I’ll probably listen to cranky people yell all day, but I don’t even care, Des— I can stay home, and I can make money, real money,
and I can help out here and maybe actually save up— or maybe buy that walking thing for Leon you said he might use soon— or maybe get a new pair of shoes because mine are falling apart, but only after the walking thing because that’s more important— and—”
I raise a hand, half laughing, half winded by how damn happy she is. “Sweetheart— breathe.”
She inhales fast, like she forgot air was a requirement.
“Okay. Sorry. I just— I haven’t had a job call me back in years. Not one where I didn’t feel… judged. Or stupid. Or like they were waiting for me to say something wrong so they could hang up.”
She waves one hand wildly while Leon squeals on her hip.
“But these people were nice. Really nice. They liked me. They said I sounded— um— what did she say? ‘Capable and warm.’ I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before, not for a job.”
“They got good taste then,” I say, still soaked, still smiling like some idiot who forgot he’s dripping on the floor.
But she barely hears me—she’s on a tear now, voice breathless, rambling straight from her heart.
“And it’s steady hours, Des. Like, actual hours. A schedule. Benefits in ninety days—which, oh my God, I’ve never had actual benefits in my life— and I’ll finally be able to get my own stuff, and stop dipping into money you leave, and I can help with groceries or bills or something,
so you’re not just taking care of everything—”
“Brielle—”
“—and I know it’s not fancy, it’s just entry-level stuff, but it’s something I can do without messing up, and they said I can mute calls if Leon cries— like they were totally understanding about me having him here— and I didn’t even have to lie or pretend to be someone else,
I just told them the truth and they still wanted me and—”
“Baby,” I repeat, stepping closer, dripping all over the damn place. “Hey.”
She finally stops, chest rising and falling fast, cheeks flushed from excitement. Leon pats her chin like he’s telling her to calm down too.
She laughs—soft, breathless, a little shaky. “Sorry. I’m just… I’m really happy. I didn’t think I’d ever get something that wasn’t a dead end.”
I reach out, cupping her cheek with one cold, wet hand.
“You did this,” I tell her, voice rough. “Not luck. Not me. You.”
Her eyes wobble, like she might cry for a good reason this time.
She whispers, “You’re really proud of me?”
I drag my thumb across her cheekbone, feel the warmth under my cold palm.
“Sweetheart,” I say, low and steady, “I’m proud enough I could knock down a wall about it.”
Her breath stutters.
And something soft—something fragile but strong—passes between us like a damn spark catching fire.
Then she blinks, really looks at me for the first time, and her eyes go huge.
“Oh God— you’re totally soaked!” she gasps, clutching Leon closer so he doesn’t get hit with flying droplets. “Desmond, you’re dripping on everything— the floor, the rug, me—”
I snort. “Yeah, I noticed, sweetheart. Been raining sideways out there.”
“You look like you climbed out of a lake,” she says, stepping back to inspect me, horrified and delighted at the same time.
“That’s because I basically did,” I grumble, peeling my wet flannel from my skin with a squelch. “Told myself the rain wasn’t that bad. Guess who was wrong.”
“You should’ve taken the umbrella,” she mutters, giving me a pointed look.
I raise a brow. “Oh really? Hadn’t heard that one before.”
She makes a face. “I told you. Two times.”
“And I ignored you. Two times.”
She huffs, but she’s smiling like she can’t even help it. “You’re unbelievable.”