Corbyn’s jaw tightened. Edie had been with him through everything, the accident, the surgeries, the long, brutal months of recovery when the pain had been his constant companion. She’d changed bandages without flinching, helped him dress when his hands wouldn’t cooperate, and seen the worst of his physical and emotional wounds. She had earned the right to her bluntness, but that didn’t make it easier to swallow.
“It’s not that simple,” he said, hating the defensiveness in his voice.
“It never is with you,” Edie replied, but some hardness had left her tone. She moved closer, uncrossing her arms, her expression softening into something more familiar.
“Corbyn, she isn’t here to gawk at or pity you. She’s here for your book, and you’ve just treated her like she committed some terrible crime by doing exactly what I asked her to do.”
As was usually the case, Edie was correct about everything. After the initial moment of shock at taking in the extent of his scars, Sadie had simply gone back to looking at him as she always did, steady and unflinching, like he wasn’t some broken thing to gawk at, and he’d acted like a bloody jackass.
“What exactly do you expect me to do?” he asked, his voice unable to hide the edge. “Chase after her? Beg her to come back?”
“I expect you to act like the man I helped raise,” Edie replied evenly, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “The one who understood the difference between pride and foolishness.”
“This isn’t about pride,” he shot back.
“Isn’t it?” Edie’s eyebrow arched perfectly. “Tell me, then. What is it about?”
Corbyn opened his mouth, then closed it again. The truth was too raw, too close to the surface. The humiliation of being caught exposed had shattered the fragile trust he’d just begun to place in her. In his usual self-destructive way, he had shoved the only person to truly understand how to get him past his mental blocks right out the door.
“She’s probably halfway to London by now,” he grumbled, not answering the question.
“Nonsense,” Edie replied. “The Roaring Stag is her home here. She’d at least have to go pack her things, and you know Maggie would try to talk her out of leaving first.” She wiped her hands on her apron, fixing him with another hard look. “The question is, are you going to sit here, or are you going to get off your stubborn arse and do the right thing?”
Riley whined softly, chiming in. His massive head nudged Corbyn’s hand, seeking reassurance.
“And what if she doesn’t want to see me?” Corbyn asked, voice dropping lower. “After what I said…”
“Then at least you’ll know you tried,” Edie said simply. “That book needs her, Corbyn.” She turned back to her cooking, adding over her shoulder, “First time in years I’ve heard you argue about something you care about instead of just shutting down.”
The silence stretched between them, and Corbyn felt the weight of Edie’s words settle. His outburst in the pool hadn’t just been about Sadie seeing his scars. It was the fact that she saw past his carefully curated persona, and that scared him more than he cared to admit.
“You made your point,” he grumbled, not wanting to admit she was right, even though she clearly was. “I’ll go talk to her.”
Edie’s face softened a bit, and she responded, “Good. But for heaven’s sake, go change first. You smell like a bucket of bleach, and those clothes are damp.” She gestured to his rumpled appearance, continuing, “Not exactly the picture of contrition, are you?”
Despite himself, a flicker of something almost like amusement tugged at Corbyn’s lips.
“Wouldn’t want to add insult to injury.”
“Exactly,” Edie said, turning back to her cooking with renewed vigor. “Clean shirt, proper shoes. Maybe even run a comb through that bird’s nest you call hair.”
Corbyn pushed himself to his feet, Riley immediately at his side. The dog looked up at him with those soulful eyes, as if understanding the importance of the mission.
“Best do as she says,” he muttered to the hound. “A lifetime of nagging has perfected her technique. No man or beast stands a chance.”
“I heard that,” Edie called, not turning around.
As Corbyn headed for the stairs, he felt a knot settle in his stomach. He had no idea what he would say to Sadie when he found her; his pride would only let him go so far. He couldn’t lether leave like this, though; the book deserved better from him. She deserved better from him.
February 20, 2025
-Corbyn-
For the first time in months, Corbyn found himself outside the safety of his estate. Riley bounded ahead, and guilt prodded at him. Riley’s world, like his own, generally did not extend beyond the estate grounds. That meant Riley stopped to sniff nearly every patch of ground while Corbyn hauled himself up the trail that stretched before him.
He’d gone to the Roaring Stag first because it was the logical place to start. He’d steeled himself for the conversation, rehearsing hollow apologies and professional half-truths on the drive over, while his hands clenched around the steering wheel. But she hadn’t been there, and her rental car was nowhere to be seen. Maggie, when she’d finally returned from her errands, had also been no help at all.
“Haven’t seen her since this morning,” Maggie had said, once she got over the shock of seeing him. Her eyes had lingered on Corbyn’s face a beat too long, as if reading the tension there, before asking, “She left early from your place? Is something wrong?”
