“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As I turn to leave, his voice calls out behind me.
“And, hey... I’m here if you need to talk. Anytime.”
I pause at the door, not turning around. I nod again, just once, the weight of those words landing more than I want to admit.
thirty-one
BREE
The coffee shop is quieter than I expected. I’m here a bit early, not because I’m eager, but because sitting at home with my nerves twisting me into knots wasn’t an option.
The door swings open, and my body reacts before my mind catches up. Every muscle goes tight, my heart picks up its pace, and my stomach plummets. Dillon steps inside, his eyes scanning the room.
It’s been over six months since we’ve been face-to-face, and yet, the sight of him still tears me up.
I straighten in my chair, my fingers gripping my mug harder than I should. This is it. The moment I’ve been both avoiding and waiting for.
Dillon’s eyes lock onto mine, and a slow smile spreads across his face. He saunters over with the same self-assured swagger that used to make me weak in the knees, and when he slides into the chair across from me, that familiar cologne hits my senses. It’s that same scent that once made my heart race but now only turns my stomach.
“Bree,” he says, no trace of the slur I’d become so accustomed to. “You’re looking good.”
For a moment, I’m caught off guard. He also looks…good. Not in aholy shit, take me backkind of way, but in a healthy, content way. His eyes are clear. His skin isn’t that blotchy shade it used to turn after a binge, and there’s color in his face now, not that grayish hue I used to lie to myself about. His clothes are clean, not slept in. His hands don’t shake when he lifts his coffee. It’s exactly how I used to hope he’d look when we were together. Back when I thought I could fix everything and believed I was the one who could make him happy.
I force myself to meet his gaze, steadying my breath. “Thank you. You look well, too.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes studying me as if nothing’s changed, as if he still has the right to look at me like that.
“I’ve missed you, you know,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make it sound sincere. “It’s been…different without you around.”
Once upon a time, that line might have made me believe we could just slide back into the way things used to be. But I’m not that girl anymore.
I take a deep breath in an attempt to anchor myself. “Dillon, I need to say some things. And I need you to listen.”
His eyebrows raise slightly, a flicker of surprise before he nods. “All right, I’m listening.”
I clasp my hands together on the table, willing them not to shake. “What you did to me…” My voice cracks slightly, but I push through. “It wasn’t okay. The way you treated me, the things you said, the way you…hurt me. It was abuse, Dillon.”
Now that the words are out, I almost regret saying them. I’m surprised when he winces, his jaw tightening, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of everything we went through issuddenly crashing down on him. It’s the first real sign of emotion I’ve seen from him in years.
“That’s uh…” He clears his throat, his voice quieter. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve been going through a treatment program… Been sober for a few months now.” He pauses. “I know I fucked up, in more ways than one. I’m so sorry, Bree. Truly.”
The sincerity in his words catches me by surprise. It’s a tone I haven’t heard from him in a long time, maybeever. I’m not sure how to respond.
“I appreciate that,” I say carefully, my voice steadier than I feel. “Still…an apology doesn’t erase what happened.”
He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I know. I don’t expect it to. I just…needed you to know that I get it now. What I did was unforgivable.”
The words hang in the air between us, and a part of me aches at the honesty in them. I want to stay guarded, but something about the way he says it breaks through my walls. Maybe it’s the way he’s finally owning up to it, the way he’s not trying to make excuses.
A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down. This isn’t how I thought this conversation would go. I’d prepared myself for anger and denial, not this quiet admission of guilt. It’s almost worse because now I’m not sure how to react.
“Why now? Why reach out after all this time?”
He exhales slowly. “Part of my recovery is making amends,” he says quietly. “But more than that, I needed to face what I’d done. To you, to us.”
A tremor runs through me, memories flooding back. The shouting matches, the shattering glass. It’s hard to separate the past from the present, especially when it feels like it happened just yesterday.
