He pauses, just long enough to make sure I’m listening. “Some guilt doesn’t belong to you,” he says. “But it’ll still eat you alive if you let it.”
His jaw tightens once. “You didn’t start this,” he says. “Don’t die trying to carry it.”
Then he walks away before I can press him. I watch him go, his silhouette disappearing into the dim light of the entryway.
I stare after him, trying to figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean—and why it feels like he just said more by leaving than he ever could’ve by staying.
The drink in front of me tastes like ash. I thought I knew exactly what my past looked like—a failed marriage, a tragic loss, and a slow slide into a life I never really wanted. But the way Griffin looked at me... it felt like he was mourning me. Like my version of the truth was just a story someone else had written for me and that confuses the hell out of me.
I don’t finish the drink. I just stare at the amber liquid as it catches the glow of the lights above the bar. Griffin’s departure feels less like a goodbye and more like a sentence being handed down.
You didn’t start this, don’t die trying to carry it.
The words loop in my mind, like a needle stuck in a groove. I’ve spent a long time believing I’m the one holding the hose, trying to douse the flames of Sierra’s unhappiness, her grief, her distance. I think I’m the reason things are falling apart because I can’t be enough to fix what we lost. But Griffin—a man who’s looked at me with nothing but low-level disdain since the first time I showed up, is now telling me I’m just another victim. But a victim of what?
I stand, the legs of the stool scraping harshly against the floor. A few people turn to look, but I don’t care. I need air. I need to be somewhere the walls don’t feel like they’re closing in.
Outside, the night air hits differently, a contrast to the beer-soaked warmth of the bar. I walk to my car but don’t get in. I lean against the door, tilting my head back toward the sky, even though the town’s lights wash out most of the stars.
I think about Sarah.
I think about the way she looked at me on the porch—not as a role I was playing, or as someone standing in for a life I’m supposed to want—but as a man who’s barely keeping his head above water.
The fear hits me hard and sharp. Not of the divorce. Not of fallout or appearances or what anyone might say.
I’m terrified that if I keep choosing what’s expected instead of what’s true, I’ll wake up one day and realize I never actually lived my own life. Just filled it with stand-ins. Moments that looked right from the outside but never held anything real.
How do you move forward when you start to suspect the ground beneath you is hollow?
I told Sarah I’d come back. That I’d give her space, to breathe and trust that I meant what I said.
Standing in this parking lot, with Griffin’s words still echoing in my head, I realize how hard that promise is going to be betweennow and morning. Because showing up without pushing means sitting with myself for the rest of tonight. And I don’t recognize the man I’m left alone with.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. Sarah’s name sits there in my contacts, familiar and too easy. I want to call her. I want to tell her the world feels like it’s shifting on its axis and she’s the only thing that feels solid.
But I don’t.
Instead, I grip the phone until my knuckles ache and shove it back into my pocket. If I’m going to be the man she deserves, I can’t use her as another shield. I need to understand what Griffin knows. I need to figure out what kind of fire I’ve been standing in.
I get into the car and start the engine. The headlights cut through the dark of the lot, illuminating the road ahead. I don't head toward my house. I just drive, letting the lines on the road pull me deeper into the night, realizing for the first time that the truth wasn't just coming—it was already here.
I just hadn't been brave enough to look it in the eye yet.
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway. It sits still and ordinary, lights off, windows blank, the kind of place that looks like it should feel settled by now. Instead, it feels emptied out.
I let myself in, the security system chirping softly before falling silent again. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t need to. I know this place by heart, every corner and creak, but tonight it still feelsunfamiliar. Like I’m walking through something I built without ever fully moving into.
I pass through the foyer, my steps echoing faintly on the hardwood, past the dining room where we hosted small dinners and polite conversations, always careful, always contained. We played our roles well. Stable. Functional. Convincing enough that no one ever questioned what was missing.
I end up in the kitchen, heading for the scotch, but Griffin's words still burn low in my chest, sharper than anything alcohol could dull. I stop at the island instead, staring at the small stack of mail with Sierra's name on it.
The house isn’t what it was when she was here.
It’s been reduced to what’s necessary. Clean lines. Clear surfaces. Nothing left that asks to be remembered. No half-finished projects. No personal touches that linger out of habit instead of intention.
I tell myself it looks fine but it doesn’t feel fine.
I stand there longer than I mean to, staring at nothing in particular, aware of how empty the room feels without being able to name what’s missing. It’s not her things. It’s not the arguments or the routines or even the loss itself.
