Hey Grant. You're a really great guy, and I had a good time yesterday. But I'm not in the right place for this right now. I'm sorry. I hope you find someone who can give you what you deserve.
Hit send before I can second-guess it. Before the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother can tell me I'm being stupid, throwing away a good thing, sabotaging myself over some guy who won't even finish a sentence.
The reply comes fast.
No worries. I figured. Hope things work out for you. Take care.
I stare at the screen.
Wait for regret to hit.
Nothing.
Just relief pouring through me, shoulders dropping, that tight band around my ribs finally loosening. There it is. The answer I needed. Not in what I feel about Grant—in what I don't feel.
I set the phone down on the nightstand. Take a breath. Another.
Okay. Now what?
I know what I want. Know who I want. But wanting and having are two completely different things, and after last night—after he stopped himself mid-sentence, after he let me walk away again—I don't know where that leaves us.
Twenty minutes drag by. My legs are cramping from sitting cross-legged but I don't move. Haven't figured out a single thing except that I'm tired of running and tired of waiting and tired of not knowing if what I feel is mutual or just my own desperate imagination making patterns out of silence.
A knock on the door.
My heart kicks hard. That stupid flutter thing that only happens with him.
"It's me." Holt's voice, muffled through the door.
My pulse is in my throat now, in my hands, everywhere. "Come in."
The door opens. He stays in the threshold like he's not sure he's allowed, like this is my space and he needs permission to enter. Still in yesterday's clothes—jeans and a black t-shirt that's seen better days, hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. Dark circles under his eyes. Looks like he hasn't slept.
"You look like hell."
"Yeah." A pause. His throat works. "Can we talk?"
My chest goes tight. "Yeah. We should."
He crosses to the bed. Sits on the edge, keeping distance between us. The mattress dips with his weight and I'm hyper-aware of the space separating us, the charged air, how the morning light is harsh through the window—exposing everything. No shadows to hide in. No soft edges.
Neither of us looks at the other at first. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them. Wait.
"I need to tell you why I left." His voice is low, measured. Each word chosen carefully like he's been rehearsing this. "The real reason."
"Okay."
He takes a breath. I watch his chest expand, watch him brace himself. This is hard for him. I can see it in the way his hands clench on his thighs, the tension in his jaw, how his shoulders are braced like he's preparing for impact.
"My dad..." Another breath. "He wasn't a good man."
"He drank. Got mean." His voice goes flat, like he's reciting facts to make them easier. Like if he doesn't feel it while he's saying it, maybe it won't hurt. "My mom—she took the worst of it."
My throat gets tight but I don't interrupt. Just watch him, watch the muscle jump in his jaw, watch him stare at his hands like they hold answers.
"I'd come home from school and she'd have new bruises. A split lip. Fingerprints on her arms." He says it like he's reading from a list. "She'd make excuses. Say she fell. Say it was an accident. But I knew."
I can picture it. Young Holt, what—ten? Twelve? Coming home to that. Watching it happen. Powerless.
