Page 27

I press the binder shut, my chest tight. The past doesn’t matter. Not now. I need to focus on the future. On the clinic. On Dad’s debt that’s been suffocating me.
I glance at my phone on the nightstand, its screen dark and silent. The last email from the creditors still lingers in my mind. $5,000 due in two months.
I barely have half of that right now. I need a job. Something fast. Before they start hounding me again.
I exhale slowly, rubbing my temples. It’s overwhelming. The weight of it all.
But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel as unbearable. Maybe because Bryan’s here.
Maybe because, despite everything, despite the walls we’ve both built, despite all the reasons we shouldn’t, it feels good living with him. Safer. Less lonely.
A sudden thud downstairs jolts me upright, heart pounding. Buddy stirs, lifting his head with a low whine, ears twitching toward the sound.
I hold my breath. Did Bryan drop something? Is he still awake?
For a second, I consider going down. Checking on him. Seeing if he’s okay. But I stop myself, fingers tightening around the quilt.
No. I can’t. Because if I do, if I see him, if I hear his voice, if I let myself sink any further into whatever this is…
I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull myself back out. I close my eyes, take a slow breath, and force myself to stay in bed.
Chapter eight
Bryan
I tighten my grip on the wheel, fingers flexing against the leather as Ocean Bay’s coastline stretches ahead, the horizon smudged with orange. The truck hums beneath me, Buddy snoring beside me in the passenger seat, his head drooped over his paws, ears twitching in his sleep. He’s so darned adorable.
The highway’s empty, save for the occasional glint of a passing car, but my mind’s anything but quiet. I keep hearing her.
That laugh, light, unguarded and spinning through my head like a song stuck on repeat. It’s been looping since last night, since she teased me about my miserable painting skills, since I caught myself staring at the way she scrunches her nose, grinning.
Too close. I roll my shoulders, flex my fingers against the wheel, and mutter, "It’s just the house."
Just the proximity. Just forced circumstance. Nothing else.
My foot presses a little harder on the gas, the cab filling with the soft crackle of the radio struggling to hold a signal. I flick itoff, the silence pressing in. The ache in my chest is a slow, dull thing, stretching wider with every mile.
Because it’s not just the house. Her face flashes behind my eyes.
That morning in the kitchen I watched her, sleeves shoved up, a smudge of flour dusting her cheek as she kneaded dough … lost in thought, oblivious to me watching.
The way she hummed while painting, off-key but soft, filling the silence between us. The small sound she made when our hands brushed fixing that hinge, barely anything, but it had hit me hard.
I grit my teeth, gripping the wheel tighter. It’s dangerous, this pull. This slow, sinking feeling like I’m being dragged toward something I swore off years ago.
She proved that love doesn’t mean anything. That leaving is easy. That I wasn’t enough to make her stay. And yet, here I am, fighting a war with my own pulse.
The sign for Ocean Bay Hardware looms ahead, its crooked wooden letters unchanged since I was a kid. I flick the blinker, pulling into the lot, gravel crunching under the tires. Buddy stirs, yawns, but doesn’t lift his head as I kill the engine and step out, stretching stiff shoulders.
Inside, the scent of sawdust and old metal clings to the air; the place is cramped and cluttered, just as I remember. Shelves are packed tight, nails, screws, paint cans stacked high.
I head straight for the lumber aisle, keeping my head down. The last thing I need is small-town chatter.
I grab what I need, new boards to fix the porch railing, extra nails, another bucket of paint.Good gravy. Someone help me. I’m actually going through with her renovation plan. As I turn toward the counter, I spot Old Man Pete, Ocean Bay’s go-to for anything hardware-related, standing behind the register with a knowing grin.
"Well, well," Pete drawls, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "Didn’t think I’d see the day Bryan Lawson played handyman. Thought you were more of a sign-the-check kind of guy."
I gruff out a laugh, dropping the supplies on the counter. "Gotta keep the place standing. Can’t have it falling apart around me."