Eric had been building me one, but I needed to finish it myself.
I turned toward him, studying his peaceful face in the dim light filtering through the curtains. His hard jaw had lost its anxious edge. Even his untamed eyebrows looked calmer.
He’d crashed the minute we’d crawled into bed, pulling me against his solid warmth. I’d wanted to ask about last night’s conversation, but exhaustion had claimed him first.
Did he mean what he’d said? Could we make this real?
I sat up, rubbing my temple where a headache was building. The questions were making me dizzy.
There were still so many variables. The biggest being distance. If I went back to Toronto, how would we build anything real? The next month would be filled with anxiety over Caleb. Eric wouldn’t leave—I’d never expect that. But if I was back in the city, back at my job, back to my two-person bubble with Hunter, how could I give Eric what he needed?
More importantly, could I live with myself if I didn’t try?
God, I need to stop. I was spiraling again, picking at the same wounds until they bled.
Eric had given me zero reasons to doubt him. Yet that twisted part of my brain—the part that conjured fake health problems and urged me to run—wouldn’t shut up.
It wasn’t him I didn’t trust, it was our situation.
What if this connection was just comfort? What if our meeting was only meant to be a distraction—a momentary fling to help us both get through?
Eric stirred as I shifted restlessly beside him. I held my breath, waiting, but he settled back into sleep.
Enough. I needed to move before I woke him with my tossing and turning.
I slipped from bed, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. Maybe physical action would quiet the chaos in my head.
I found myself at the closed door of my parents’ bedroom, hand trembling as it hovered over the knob. It would be my first time breaching this threshold in over a decade.
As children, Trina and I were never allowed to enter this room unless invited. Even now, as an adult, opening the door felt like intruding on sacred space.
My palm slipped against the doorknob. The door cracked. My heart raced as I pushed it open with shaking fingers.
Air trapped in my lungs as shock hit me.
Nothing remained of what I remembered. Where Trina’s room had stayed frozen in time, my father’s was unrecognizable. He’d redone it.
Clean and clutter-free, it was masculine and bold. Dark woods, simple bedding, warm minimal lighting.
The only trace of my mother was a framed photo of her on the nightstand.
I moved further inside, running my fingers along the smooth surface of his dresser. Had he made these changes to rid himself of agony? Maybe it was part of his recovery from alcohol—a cathartic way to face loss and cleanse his mind and space of the haunting memories.
It was beautiful. Not just how it looked, but how it felt.
This must have helped him move forward. I sank onto the edge of his perfectly made bed, my chest aching with regret that he hadn’t found this peace sooner. Sorry it took years of drinking and hiding before he finally turned things around.
God, how familiar that was.
I’d lost myself too. Hidden in a city of strangers. And it took losing my father to bring me back into the world.
Now I just needed to find the strength to stay.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Eric
I startled awake in the dark room, alone. The space where Jamie should’ve been, cold and empty.
