“Boy,” Dad says, not looking up from the paper, “you look like you got the shit beat out of you.”
“Funny,” Vanessa cuts in, “he looks like someone who needs three helpings and a haircut.”
I sink into the couch, my sister still glued to my side. For a while, it’s just noise, her chatter about her new toys, Vanessa’svoice from the kitchen, and the crinkle of Dad’s newspaper. It feels… good. Familiar.
Dad finally folds the paper, setting it aside. His eyes land on me the way they always have, steady, too knowing. “You messed up,” he says simply. No edge, no anger. Just facts.
The words hit harder than if he’d yelled.
Vanessa gives him a look but doesn’t say anything..
I rake a hand over my face. “Yeah.”
Dad leans forward, elbows on his knees. “That woman… Stella… she’s not just somebody you leave behind and hope she waits around. She’s the kind you build with, or you lose her for good.”
I don’t answer right away, because what am I supposed to say? That I didn’t just let her slip—I shoved her trust off a cliff? That every second I’m not with her, the lie gets louder?
Later, when the house is quiet and my sister’s asleep, I sit in the truck long enough for the engine to tick cool. My hand’s on the door handle, but I don’t move. What the hell do you say to the woman you broke? There’s no speech big enough to fix it. No grand gesture.
Finally, I force myself out. My shoes sound too damn loud on her porch steps.
The door opens before I can knock. She’s there, hair pulled back, face unreadable. For a second, I almost believe she’s going to slam it in my face. Instead, she turns and walks back inside without a word. That’s worse.
I step in, close the door behind me. The house feels different from how I remember it. What once belonged to her parents has started shifting into her. The walls now carry her artwork. The air doesn’t hold that calming blend of her mom and dad anymore—it's all her now, sharp and undeniable.
“Stella,” I start, but my voice cracks, rough and unsteady. I drag a hand through my hair, searching for words that don’tsound empty, but all I’ve got is the truth, raw and ugly. “I don’t even know how to stand here and look at you, knowing what I did. I’m sick of it. I hate myself for it. I’d tear the night apart with my bare hands if it meant taking it back. But I can’t.”
I swallow hard, chest tight. “You’ve been my whole life since we were kids in high school. The only thing that ever made sense. And I threw it away for nothing. For less than nothing. You don’t owe me forgiveness. You don’t even owe me this moment. But I swear to God, Stella—every day I’ve got left, I’ll spend it trying to be the man I swore I’d be for you.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me.
My eyes look around and land on the table. That’s when I see it.
The leather journal. The neat stack of flashcards. Laid out in order, the evidence of my affair. Every lie. Every broken promise. A record of the man I swore I wasn’t, staring back at me in black ink.
It’s not grief sitting there.
My chest goes tight. I take a step closer, then stop myself, because I get it now. She’s not sitting in the pain I caused. She is a woman who was scorned, taking back her power.
I swallow hard, my throat burning. “You’re not just keeping track,” I say, more to myself than to her. “You’re… you’re building something.”
She still doesn’t look at me.
The silence hollows me out as I back toward the door. The last thing I see before it shuts behind me is her sitting at the table, pen in hand, writing me out of her life one line at a time.
Once I leave Stella’s, I just drive. Windows down, the night air rushing in, no destination in mind. The hum of the truck fills the silence I can’t shake, every mile a little louder in my head.
By the time the road turns into switchbacks and the mountains rise around me, I realize where I’ve landed. A few hours have gone by, and I’m sitting in front of the ranch gates at Mac’s.
It’s late, and the last thing I want is to spook his animals, so I pull out my phone and type.
Me:Need to talk. Meet me at your front gate.
The crunch of boots on gravel cuts through the dark before I even see him. Mac stops a few feet from the truck, arms crossed, his face set in that calm way that always makes me feel younger than I am.
“You look like hell,” he says. No judgment, just fact.
“Feels about right,” I mutter.
