The next sentence never made it out.
I choked on the name, breath hitching hard and sudden. Tears came fast, hot and humiliating. I pressed my lips together, but it didn’t help. The sob forced its way out anyway.
Ethan didn’t hesitate.
He crossed the space between us in two steps and pulled me into him, firm and sure. One arm wrapped around my shoulders, the other around my back, holding me like he wasn’t going to let go until I was fine.
I didn’t resist.
I broke completely, fists twisting into the fabric of his T-shirt as I gasped for air, sobbing so hard it felt like my lungs couldn’t quite keep up. He rubbed my back in slow, steady circles, saying nothing but somehow telling me everything I needed in that moment.
“It’s okay,” he murmured quietly. “I’ve got you.”
It took a few minutes before the storm passed. My breathing evened out in small increments, hiccups fading into shaky exhales. I wiped at my face with the back of my hand, embarrassed but too tired to care much.
Ethan leaned back just enough to look at me.
His eyes, steel gray and usually so controlled were shiny.
“Whatever happened between us before,” he said softly, “we were friends first. That didn’t end for me. If you ever need me, Claire, all you have to do is ask.”
I nodded, throat tight again, but for a different reason this time.
Later, after he left and I cleaned up the glass, I sat alone on the couch and let myself think clearly for the first time in weeks.
Brandon hadn’t been worse than the others before him. He just hadn’t cared. He hadn’t hit me. He hadn’t done anything dramatic enough to justify how empty I felt around him.
But I knew, with quiet certainty, that we weren’t good for each other.
And what surprised me most was that when I finally made the decision to end it, I didn’t feel devastated.
I felt relieved.
Relieved to breathe again. Relieved to spend time with Lily without guilt. Relieved to be at the Walkers’ house without wondering who would resent it later.
Relieved to stop pretending that indifference was enough.
Chapter 52
Ethan
The house is too quiet once Lily is asleep.
Mom and Dad left an hour ago, headed to Aunt May’s for the night. They’d hugged Lily twice each, lingered too long in the doorway, and pretended they weren’t relieved to step out of the house. I don’t blame them. Grief had settled in its corners. It seeps into furniture, into routines.
I’m on the front porch when the silence finally becomes unbearable.
The old wooden boards creak under my weight as I lower myself onto the step, a brown paper bag resting beside me. Inside it: a bottle of beer I probably shouldn’t be drinking and a small, threadbare stuffed bear Lily insists on sleeping with but had forgotten downstairs tonight. I’d picked it up absentmindedly, meaning to bring it back up later, and now it sits beside me.
The porch light hums softly overhead. The night is cool, spring edging toward summer, the air smelling faintly of lilacs and damp earth. Somewhere down the road, a dog barks. A car passes. Life continues.
I tilt the bottle to my mouth and take a long pull.
Footsteps sound behind me.
I don’t turn. I know who it is before the screen door opens.
Claire steps out carrying a small plate wrapped in foil, leftovers, probably for me. She always thinks of everyone else first. It’s one of the things that makes loving her dangerous.
