I could’ve rolled down the window. I could have waved or gotten out or told him it was okay—that I understood. That maybe it didn’t matter as much as it did.
Instead, I reached into the back seat for Winnie’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and turned the key in the ignition.
I didn’t know what I’d say if I let myself say anything at all.
Because this—this wasn’t a breakup.
It wasn’t even a relationship.
It was hope, thin and tender, folded into corners I should’ve left untouched, and now it hurt in ways I hadn’t let anything hurt in a long, long time.
I pulled out of the lot without looking back.
Maybe that was the worst part—he wasn’t even mine, and it still felt like an ending.
THIRTY-THREE
AUSTIN
The porch lighton Selene’s side of the duplex was still on.
It glowed soft and amber against the navy night, casting long shadows across the railing and turning the potted mums by the steps into something almost golden. A fat moth knocked clumsily against the glass bulb, over and over, like it hadn’t figured out it would never get through.
My boots crunched against the gravel path as I crossed the small strip of yard that used to feel invisible—like nothing more than an extension of home.
Tonight, it felt like enemy territory.
I shifted the take-out container in my hand—chicken nuggets and honey mustard from that diner Winnie loved, still warm in the brown paper bag I’d gripped too tight. My intention was to get myself dinner while giving Selene some space, but I was too nauseated to eat. The cardboard had softened along the edges where my fingers had sweated through it, and a smear of grease marked the side where my thumb wouldn’t stop pressing.
My palms were damp again. I wiped one against my jeans, but the moisture clung, cold and clammy. My throat was dry. Swallowing felt like dragging glass through cotton.
I hadn’t changed out of my work hoodie. There were still paint flecks along the hem and a dried smear of spackle on my forearm. I looked like someone who didn’t care enough. Like someone who hadn’t planned this right.
Fuck.
I’d barely made it home before dragging myself next door, my thoughts tangled with all the things I should’ve said hours ago but hadn’t. The silence between us had stretched so long it felt alive now—tight and watching, coiled like a wire waiting to snap.
I stopped at the bottom step.
The house was still. A stillness that felt dangerous.
I should’ve told Brody I didn’t have time to stop by. I should’ve showered and cleaned up for them. I should’ve been in that gymnasium. Front row. Clapping loud. Lifting Winnie into a spin like she was made of magic. I should’ve been steady and present, proudly pressing my hand to the small of Selene’s back when the lights came up.
Instead, I stood in the dark, holding a sagging bag of lukewarm food, and wondering how many times a man could ruin something good before it was gone forever.
I looked up at her door.
My feet wouldn’t move.
For half a second—maybe longer—I thought about turning around. I considered leaving the food on the step like a sad little peace offering and slinking back through my own door without knocking. At least that way I wouldn’t have to watch Selene look at me like she was bracing for disappointment.
The porch bulb flickered once, then held steady.
I climbed the steps slowly, every movement deliberate. My knees felt stiff, my chest tight enough that I couldn’t take a full breath. The wood creaked beneath me—familiar in a way that nearly undid me. I remembered walking up those steps withshopping bags and groceries. I remembered Selene opening the door barefoot and smiling after she’d just pulled an apple pie from the oven. I remembered Winnie in her pajamas, holding up a picture she’d drawn of the three of us.
I remembered it all.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that it might already be too late to fix my fuckup.
