Not this.
Not the kind of allegations that twist your stomach and make old wounds start whispering again.
I drag a hand down my face.
Stalking?
An affair?
No.
Doesn’t track.
Not with the woman who tucks Sadie’s hair behind her ear with soft hands.
Not with the woman who apologizes when she bumps into the damn counter.
Not with the woman who flinches when someone raises their voice, even if it isn’t at her.
Delaney is steady. Quiet. Scared sometimes, yeah, but she’s got a backbone. She works hard, keeps her promises, and shows up when it matters.
She’s not the type to blow up a kitchen.
She’s not the type to stalk anyone.
She’s not the type to…
I stop myself before the next thought finishes forming.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what type she used to be.
And I hate that.
I hate that part of me still remembers how it feels to think you knew someone.
To trust them.
To believe them.
I hate that some rusted-out instinct in me sees the word affair and immediately lights up.
Marissa’s voice flickers through my head:
“You’re imagining things, Boone.”
I was.
And I wasn’t.
I never found out whether my suspicions were true. In the end, it didn’t matter—Marissa left anyway, without caring about the mess she left behind.
I shut the phone off again.
It doesn’t help.
Because now I’m not just angry at Dottie.
I’m angry at myself for letting the past get its claws into me.
