TWENTY-TWO
SCOTT
Istand on the beach for a long time after she leaves.
Penelope eventually gets bored without an audience for her commentary and wanders off, probably to spread the news to everyone she knows. She's already typing on her phone as she picks her way across the sand in those ridiculous wedge heels. By sunset, the entire town will know that Scott Avery almost punched someone on the beach and got dumped immediately afterward.
Fun.
David gives me one last smug look before heading back toward the boardwalk, mission apparently accomplished. He walks like a man who's won something, shoulders back, stride confident. Ten years with her, and this is what he chooses to do with his history with Jessica—show up at the worst possible moment and twist the knife.
I hate him in a way I've never hated anyone, which is saying something because I've had some truly terrible investors over the years.
And I just stand there, sand in my dress shoes, the collapsed umbrella at my feet, trying to remember how to breathe.
She's gone.
She said I was no different from her ex-husband, the man who spent a decade making her feel small.
And the worst part—the part that's going to keep me awake for the rest of my life—is that she might be right.
I bought her building without telling her. I made decisions about her life, her business, her future, without ever asking what she wanted. I told myself I was protecting her, but was I? Or was I just doing what I always do—controlling the situation because I'm too scared to let things unfold naturally?
I'm a romance author who doesn't understand how love actually works.
That's the kind of irony that would be funny if it wasn't actively destroying me.
I gather the umbrella, the abandoned beach chair that tried to kill me, and what's left of my dignity. It's not much. The dignity, I mean. The umbrella and chair are fine.
The grapes are still there. Jessica's bag of grapes, forgotten in the chaos. I pick them up because leaving them feels wrong, and now I'm walking back to my condo carrying a bag of fruit that belongs to a woman who never wants to see me again.
This is worse than rock bottom. It’s whatever lies beneath the rocks, where the sad creatures live who've never seen sunlight.
I make it back to my condo on autopilot.
I don't remember the walk or unlocking the door. One moment I'm standing on the beach, surrounded by the wreckage of everything I wanted, and the next I'm sitting on my expensive uncomfortable couch, still wearing sandy khakis and a button-down that smells like sunscreen and regret.
My phone buzzes.
Grayson:Michelle just called. What happened?
I stare at the message. Type a response. Delete it. Type another one. Delete that too.
What happened is that I ruined everything. I finally found someone who made me want to be honest, and then I was truthful in all the wrong ways. I'm forty-five years old and still don't know how to love someone without trying to save them.
Me:I'll explain later.
Grayson:That bad?
Me:Worse.
My phone buzzes again immediately, but this time, it's not Grayson.
It's Rodney.
My agent. The man who's been patiently guiding my career for fifteen years. The man who's been waiting for me to write something honest again ever since my books went hollow.
I let it go to voicemail.
