The compliment caught Sadie off guard, and she shifted in her seat. She twisted her pen between her fingers, a little smile tugging at her lips.
“That’s… thank you,” she said, her voice soft.
When she looked up, their eyes met, and for a moment, she felt a sense of déjà vu. His gaze had softened, the blue becoming even more striking, and an image flashed in her mind of the young man from the Tube who had been haunting her memories for fifteen years. She quickly pushed that aside, though, telling herself it was simply because she had been working on a story based on that moment.
By mid-morning, Corbyn had settled in to work on new pages while Sadie reviewed what he’d written the day before. She curled up in the leather armchair on the opposite side of the desk, red pen poised over his manuscript, but she could not focus. The contrast between Corbyn’s sincere appreciation earlier and Nate’s manipulative email kept pulling at her thoughts.
Hope England is treating you well.
You always said I should consider teaching.
The apartment feels empty without your books everywhere.
Each sentence felt like an attempt to pull her back to New York and the old, suffocating patterns of their relationship. Sadie stared at the papers before her, not seeing the words. Instead, she was seeing the email, her mind overanalyzing every word.
“I can practically hear you thinking,” Corbyn said, setting down his pen and breaking her from her thought spiral. “You’re still dwelling on it.”
Sadie sighed, leaning back in her chair, rubbing her temples as she groaned, “Sorry. I told myself I wasn’t going to, and now I’m doing exactly what he wants, obsessing over his words.”
Corbyn set his jaw, then looked away toward the window. He was silent for a moment, and Sadie figured he would simply return to his work. She looked down, trying to figure out where she had left off before her mind wandered.
“Just say it,” he muttered. He was looking at her expectantly, and her brow furrowed in confusion. “If you need to talk about it… I can listen.”
Sadie stared at him, caught off guard, and quipped, “Careful, Pearce. I might start to think you aren’t a complete grump.” The quip slipped out automatically, a shield against the vulnerability his unexpected kindness had triggered. She could have sworn his lips twitched in amusement, and she gave him a small smile before she continued, “You really want to hear about my ex?”
“We’re not making much progress here anyway. And…” he hesitated with a shrug, then continued with what seemed like carefully chosen words, “sometimes it helps to speak things aloud. Makes them less powerful.”
The moment felt significant. Corbyn Pearce, who had barely tolerated personal conversation a week ago, was now inviting her to confide in him. Sadie studied his face, the tension around his eyes suggesting he was as surprised by the offer as she was.
“I met him in college,” she began slowly, testing the waters. “We had a few of the same classes our freshman year, and he’d already published a few short stories in literary magazines. I thought he was brilliant.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “He made sure I thought that.”
Corbyn listened, his expression neutral but attentive, as she continued.
“He could be incredibly charming when he wanted to be, but his moods were…” she searched for the right word, “unpredictable. Everything depended on how his writing was going. If he got rejected, it was somehow my fault for not supporting him properly. If he got accepted, well, that was all his talent.”
Riley had gotten up as she spoke, stretching as he moved from his place in front of the fire. The dog settled at her feet, as if sensing the shift in her mood, his warm weight against her ankles providing silent comfort as the words poured out.
“The first time he destroyed my writing—“
“He what?” Corbyn interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp.
Sadie blinked, surprised by the strength of his reaction. When it came to things outside the realm of the book or his privacy, Corbyn usually showed as little emotion as possible.
“He… he was drunk,” she stammered after a moment. “I’d been writing a short story in my journal that I was excited about. When I showed it to him, he told me I was copying him, that it was derivative of his writing style. When I disagreed, he ripped out the pages and tore them up.” She forced her voice to stay even, despite the lump that had formed in her throat.
Corbyn’s expression had darkened, his mouth set in a hard line, and he seethed, “And you stayed.”
It wasn’t a question, and Sadie bristled at what sounded like judgment.
“Yes, I stayed. Because he convinced me it was a one-time thing. He apologized for a week, and he seemed genuinely remorseful. He replaced my journal… and I…” she trailed off, the familiar shame washing over her, making her cheeks burn.
“You loved him,” Corbyn finished, his tone softening.
Sadie looked up, startled as she whispered, “Yes.”
A beat passed between them, allowing for a moment of understanding before he asked quietly, “What made you finally leave?”
Sadie stared down at her hands, a sharp memory surfacing. She wasn’t sure she was ready to share it. Instead, she said, “I got tired of making excuses, and of feeling like I was losing myself more and more with each passing day.” She looked up, feeling her expression harden. “I’d already given up so much… I stopped writing, stopped dreaming, stopped seeing friends. Everything revolved around his moods, his needs, and his writing. So, one day I went home with Jess after work instead of going to our apartment. I only went back to get my clothes when I knew he’d be out at his writer’s group.”
