What the hell was I thinking?I didn't just bring her my love tonight; I brought her my wreckage. I expected her to hold me together, and never stopped to think what it would cost her.
With Sierra, everything was a performance. I knew exactly which version of me to bring to the table every night. We discussed the mortgage, our jobs and the lawn maintenance. It was safe. It was sterile. But with Sarah, there is no safety. There is just this raw, bleeding honesty that I’m clearly not prepared for. I think about the signed papers again. They’re sitting in the glovebox of my truck, a legal end to a marriage I’m not sure should have ever happened.
Sierra will be fine, she’s strong, and she’ll find someone who can give her the 100% she deserves. But Sarah? I’ve spent years giving her 0%, and yet here I am, still asking for her everything.
I hear her footsteps a few moments later, soft, hesitant pads against the hardwood. She’s changed into an oversized sweatshirt and thick socks, her face scrubbed clean but her eyes rimmed with red. She doesn't come into the kitchen; she stops at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m sorry for the drama,” she says, her voice a bit steadier. “It’s just… the timing. It has always been the timing with us, hasn’t it?”
“The timing sucked because I made it suck. I waited too long to be honest with Sierra, and I waited too long to be honest with myself. I thought if I just showed up here, it would be like a reset button. Like we could just go back to the way we were. Who we were.”
Sarah lets out a short, dry laugh that sounds more like a cough. “We were in our early twenties, Jace. We didn't have mortgages or reputations or… ex-wives. We just had a beat-up car and a lot of bad ideas.”
“It wasn't a bad idea,” I say, stepping toward her. I stop a respectful distance away, keeping my hands in my pockets. “Loving you was the only thing I ever did that felt like it belonged to me. Everything else—the coaching job my dad wanted me to take, the wedding Sierra’s mother planned, the ‘perfect’ life, that was all just a script I was reading. Tonight… this was me finally going off-book.”
She looks at me then,reallylooks at me, and I see the internal war raging behind her eyes. She wants to believe me, but the guilt is a parasite. It tells her she’s a home-wrecker. It tells her she’s a second choice, even though she’s always been theonlychoice. Even when I didn’t make it a priority.
“What happens now?” she asks.
“Now?” I take a breath, feeling the weight of tonight weighing on me. “Now, I go back to my place. And when you’re ready, I’ll come back. We’ll just…talk. No clothes coming off. No desperate moves. Just us, figuring out who we are and who we can be.”
Sarah studies me like she’s waiting for the catch. When she doesn’t find one, a small, tentative smile lifts her mouth. It isn’t bright or sure. But it’s something.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
I start toward the door. As I pass her, I can’t help myself. I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch. She leans into the touch for half a second, like she’s savoring it.
“Goodnight, Sarah.”
“Goodnight, Jace.”
I walk out to my truck, the night air sharp and steady. When I sit, I grip the steering wheel and let out a breath I think I’ve been holding since the first sob came out of her. Through the windshield, her porch light glows, soft and unwavering.
For the first time in years, I’m not leaving because I’m scared. I’m leaving because it’s the right thing.
I catch sight of my whistle hanging from my rearview mirror, and the thought hits me: it’s just a tool. Something I use at work. It doesn’t get to define me anymore. Not here, not tonight.
I start the engine.
I’m not running. I’m not chasing.
I’m giving her room to choose me.
And this time, I’m not rushing her.
Chapter Seventeen
The Cost of Hope
Sarah
The headlights of Jace’s truck sweep across my living room wall, a slow-moving arc of white light that eventually disappears, leaving me in total darkness. I’m still standing in the kitchen doorway, my fingers curved into the hem of my sweatshirt so tightly that my knuckles ache.
The silence that follows the sound of his engine fading away is absolute. It’s the kind of silence that forces you to hear your own thoughts, and right now, mine are screaming.
I don’t move for a long time. I just breathe in the scent he left behind—that lingering, intoxication of his cologne, mixed withthe crisp night air. It’s a scent that has haunted my dreams for years. Tonight it was finally real. He was finally here, in my bed.
And I stopped him.
