“Stella, where the fuck are you going?”
“To get coffee. With Ansel. Go have fun with your slut.”
I swing the door open.
“You see Ansel more than me. Maybe you should date her instead!”
The door slams behind me, a violent echo that rattles the frames on the wall. Cold air slices my cheeks the second I step outside, but it’s nothing compared to the fire ripping through my chest, hot and unrelenting.
I stomp across the wet parking lot, shoes smacking against the pavement, water splashing up my ankles. My hands shake as I dig for my keys, metal jingling in my grip. I don’t even know where I’m going. Just anywhere but here, anywhere that isn’t him.
My latte sits in the cup holder, cold and untouched. Mascara streaks down my face,My Happy Endingby Avril Lavigne blaring on repeat, every lyric slicing me open a little deeper. When I finally pull back into the packed apartment parking lot, Donovan’s car is gone.
I take the torturous steps up to our fourth-floor apartment, every muscle in my legs burning, breath ragged and uneven. When I finally push through the door, Ansel takes one look at me before her arms wrap tight around me, pulling me in like she already knows. No questions. No demands. Just the steady warmth of her holding me together while I fall apart.
We sit on the couch in silence, the only sound in the apartment the low murmur of a Maury rerun. I couldn’t tell you whether the guys are the father or not—my eyes are fixed past the TV, on the city stretching wide and endless beyond the glass. Hours blur together. The TV drones on, the voices blending into background noise, until eventually the weight of exhaustion pulls us both under.
The shrill text message ringtone startles me awake, slicing through the silence. I fumble for my phone on the coffee table, my heart kicking hard against my ribs when the screen lights up. Donovan.
Sir-O’s-Alot: Didn’t mean to start a war over a name. Hope the coffee was good.
God, I need to change that stupid contact name.
I hover over my screen.
Me:Who is Chelsea?Delete.Tell me it’s nottrue. Delete.If you’re seeing someone else, just leave mealone. Delete.
My thumb shakes as I drop the phone onto the cherrywood coffee table. I yank my favorite fluffy pink bat blanket over me, burying my face in the softness. The midday sun pours through the windows, too bright, too cheerful. Floor-to-ceiling light, spilling across the hardwood. Beyond the glass, the bay stretches wide, glittering in the distance—a view I usually love, but right now it just feels like a reminder of everything slipping away.
Donovan
Me:Didn’t mean to start a war over a name. Hope the coffee was good.
The typing bubbles pop up. Then disappear. Again. Three times.
I drag my hands down my face, heart thudding in my throat. Shit. She’s pissed. Of course, she’s pissed. And it’s my fault. My fucking fault. I could’ve just told her right away who Chelsea was, but instead I snapped back, letting my anger run the show. Now she thinks I’m hiding something—and I’m not.
Me:Hey brother, hope you’re enjoying my bike while I’m gone. Thinking about heading to the dealership. Could really use some speed therapy right now.
I power off my phone, toss it onto the couch with a dull thud, and grab my keys, the metal biting into my palm. Anger and disappointment radiate off me like heat, my chest burning withevery breath. I’m so fucking stupid. One honest conversation could’ve saved us both. But hearing her say it—hearing her believe I’d cheat—that was a gut punch I didn’t see coming, one that still knocks the air from my lungs.
She’s my whole damn world. And somehow, she still thinks so little of me.
The dealership’s in the next town over. The salesman tries to talk me into the latest, flashiest Harley on the lot. I don’t let him. I know exactly what I want.
I ride out of there on a matte black Honda Rebel 500—almost identical to the one I gave Mac. I pick up new gear on the way out: helmet, gloves, jacket, and boots.
Then I get on the bike and ride.
First, East, toward the Bay. Then south—letting the rumble under me, the wind presses hard against my chest, and the steady vibration through the bars bleeds out what words can’t.
Two hours later, my ass is numb, my hands ache, and my thoughts are only slightly quieter.
A sign appears ahead, weathered but welcoming:
Entering Devil’s Cove, North Carolina.
I pull off at a gas station just off the main road—a white clapboard building with blue shutters and a hand-painted sign that reads:
