Now it was just… empty.
He let out a sound—half scream, half sob—and slammed the door. It rattled the frame, but not enough. Nothing was enough.
By the time he hit the bridge back toward Oak Island, sorrow had twisted into rage. The kind of rage that burns your throat from the inside.
“Why the hell make me drive here if you weren’t coming, Claire?” he shouted at the windshield, knuckles white against the steering wheel.
Forty-five minutes stretched like a lifetime. Every exit he passed, every song on the radio—reminders. Of her. Of promises. Of everything that was supposed to still be his.
He hit 58th and should’ve gone home. But home felt hollow now. So he turned left instead.
The Grill.
It was muscle memory at this point. Like his grief knew where it needed to go before his heart could catch up. He parked crooked and stormed inside, ignoring the sea of familiar faces.
He sat at the end of the bar—the spot nobody wanted. The one she’d taken that first night.
Mike approached with a grin that died halfway to his lips.
“Hey man, I’ll grab you a beer. Where’s Clai—”
“Whiskey.”
Mike blinked. “That’s not your drink, you alri—”
“Whiskey.” Jaxon snapped, his voice low, teeth clenched.
Mike didn’t ask again. He just poured from the top shelf, eyes scanning the weight Jaxon was trying to bury.
And God, was he trying.
Jaxon sat with his head down, spinning the coaster in tight circles like he could whirl the whole night away if he just kept it moving.
Spin.
Sip.
Repeat.
He didn’t speak for a while—not really. Just mumbled. Pieces of stories Mike already knew. Pieces he didn’t. The diner in Denver. Her breathless laugh. Her goodbye that never came in person—just a fucking text.
Spin.
Sip.
The more he drank, the more the mask cracked. And somewhere between glass four and five, his voice broke.
“She said she loved me. Said she was coming back. I waited, Mike. I fucking waited right there at the gate. I watched every damn person walk past and she just... never showed up.”
Mike didn’t answer. He just slid the keys off the bar and into his pocket. Because this wasn’t about driving anymore. This was about drowning—and right now, Jaxon was knee-deep in the tide, letting it pull him under.
And maybe he needed to be.
Because love like that?
When it ends in silence?
It doesn’t just hurt.
