So why does every part of me feel like I just made the worst decision of my life?
Why does easy feel like settling?
Why does the right choice feel so completely wrong?
I lie back on my bed. Still dressed. Stare at the sage dress hanging on my door. Tomorrow I'll wear it. Tomorrow I'll meet Grant for coffee. Tomorrow I'll smile and laugh and be the version of myself that doesn't feel like she's drowning.
Tomorrow I'll prove I can move forward.
Even if forward feels like the wrong direction entirely.
Chapter 15
Holt
I should be at Finn's, sleeping off last night's whiskey, but my truck ended up here instead. Muscle memory. Or maybe just stupidity.
I'm not working. Can't focus enough for that. Just standing in the bay with a wrench in my hand, pretending the Camaro on the lift needs my attention more than the sound of footsteps overhead. She's moving around up there, getting ready for him, and the wrench feels heavier than it should.
I hear her coming down the stairs—that specific rhythm, the way she takes them too fast like she's always in a hurry to get somewhere. The door opens and I don't turn around, but I know the exact moment she steps into the garage because the air changes. Or maybe I'm just that far gone.
Through the window, I watch a truck pull up. Too clean. Navy blue, barely a scratch on it, the kind of truck that's never seen real work. Grant Holloway gets out wearing a polo shirt and nice jeans and a confident smile, and everything about him screams easy, safe, uncomplicated. Everything I'm not.
He sees Scout and his smile widens, the kind of reaction I've seen before when someone notices her for the first time—like she's the only thing worth looking at.
"You look great."
She does. Jeans and a white tank top, hair pulled back, sunglasses pushed up on her head. Not the dress. I noticed that immediately, even though I was trying not to look.
"Thanks," she says, and there's a smile in her voice but it doesn't sound like the one she uses with me or even the one she uses with Finn. It sounds polite.
They get in his truck and she's laughing at something he said, and then the engine starts—smooth, quiet, well-maintained—and they're gone. The garage feels emptier than it did five minutes ago. I stand there with the wrench still in my hand, staring at the spot where his truck was parked, and Finn's voice echoes in my head: Do something, you stubborn bastard. But what? Chase after her? Tell her what—that I'm a fucking coward who can't handle the idea of her getting hurt, that every time I think about letting her in my chest seizes up and all I can see is everything that could go wrong, that I had my chance and didn't take it?
I go back to pretending the wrench matters.
Scout
My phone buzzes. Grant: See you soon! and I stare at it, waiting for something to happen in my chest, the flutter, the nerves, anything.
Nothing.
Right.
Okay. I'm putting on emotional armor for a coffee date and feeling nothing when a nice guy texts me.
This is fine.
Everything's fine.
Grant's truck smells like pine air freshener and new leather and control, which is maybe a weird thing to smell but that's what it is—everything's so clean and organized it feels deliberate, like he spent time making sure there wasn't a single receipt or empty cup or random tool. And okay yes I'm comparing this to Holt's truck which is basically a mobile junkyard of socket wrenches and empty water bottles and that's not fair, Grant's truck is nice, Grant is nice, stop comparing everything to Holt for five seconds, Scout, Jesus.
"Thanks for saying yes," Grant says as we pull onto the main road and the sun's already vicious even though it's barely ten, heat shimmering off the asphalt in waves, sweat already gathering at the back of my neck. "I wasn't sure you would."
"Why not?" I'm fiddling with my seatbelt and I need to stop fiddling with the seatbelt.
He glances over, then back to the road, and there's this pause like he's deciding how honest to be. "You seemed... I mean, you and that guy—Holt?"
My stomach drops straight through the floorboards and I'm gripping the seatbelt now instead of fiddling with it. "It's complicated."
