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Proud of you. That took guts.

Did it, though? Or was it just the bare minimum of human decency to agree to face someone I'd hurt?

I spent the rest of the day in a fog, going through the motions of settling in but not really present. I ran into Derek briefly when he came home from work—he was a tall, lanky guy in his thirties with a receding hairline and an awkward smile. He seemed nice enough, if a bit socially uncomfortable, and he retreated to his room after our brief hello, which suited me fine.

That night, I lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the strange creaks and sighs of a new house, my mind racing with thoughts of Saturday. What would Con say? What would I say? Would he be angry? Hurt? Would he have moved on already? The thought sent a spike of jealousy through me, which was rich considering I was the one who had run away.

When sleep finally came, it was fitful and filled with dreams of running down endless corridors, always pursued, never quite caught.

The next few days passed in a blur of work, commuting, and anxiety. I threw myself into my shifts at the restaurant, taking extra hours when I could, anything to keep my mind occupied. The long drive to and from Riverside became a kind of meditation, a space where I could be alone with my thoughts without having to face them head-on.

I went to meetings every night, different ones each time, never staying long enough to form connections. I spoke sometimes, sharing sanitized versions of my struggles, careful never to reveal too much. It helped, in a way, to hear my own voice articulating my fears, even if I couldn't bring myself to be fully honest.

By the time Saturday rolled around, I was a bundle of nerves. I'd barely slept the night before, and my shift at the restaurant was a disaster of dropped plates and mixed-up orders. Jamesfinally took pity on me and sent me home an hour early, telling me to get my head straight before I came back on Monday.

I changed clothes before heading to the coffee shop, finally settling on jeans and a simple blue top—casual but not sloppy. I arrived fifteen minutes early and claimed a table in the corner, my back to the wall so I could see the door.

And then I waited, my heart in my throat, for the man I'd run from to find me again.

Chapter 23

Geri

The meeting didn't go to plan at all. Con was quiet, distant, and formal, telling me it was okay, he understood, and that I should call him once I got my shit together. He knew I wasn't going to call just as much as I did. I had now lost my friend, and the only person who cared enough about me, even when I was being a dick.

But I took it on the chin, promised myself I would do better, I would stay away from anything meaningful in the future, but that no one deserved for me to treat them this way, and that I was better off alone.

Con stopped messaging me. And I hated it. I missed my friend more than I was able to explain. James told me I should have just opened up to him, told him what happened, but I knew I wouldn't. No way would I open up to anyone ever. It was my cross to bear.

The coffee shop felt too warm, too crowded, too everything as I watched Con walk away. His shoulders were straight, his stride purposeful—the picture of someone who had said what they needed to say and was now moving on with their life. Moving on from me.

I remained frozen at the table, my coffee untouched and cooling rapidly, replaying the last twenty minutes in my head like a horror movie I couldn't look away from.

He'd arrived exactly on time, not a minute early or late. I'd watched him scan the café, his expression carefully neutral when he spotted me. No smile. No warmth. Just a slight nod of acknowledgment before he ordered his drink and joined me.

"Thanks for meeting me," he'd said, his voice so formal it made my chest ache.

"Of course," I'd replied, as if I hadn't spent two weeks avoiding his calls and messages. As if this was just a casual catch-up between friends.

We'd made small talk for a few excruciating minutes—how was work, how was the new place, had I heard about the late-season snowfall at Alpine Ridge. The kind of conversation you'd have with an acquaintance, not someone who had seen you naked, who had held you through the night, who had told you he was falling in love with you.

And then, when the pleasantries had been exhausted, he'd gotten to the point.

"I think I understand what happened," he'd said, his green eyes steady on mine. "You got scared. Things got too real, too fast, and you ran. It's what you do."

I'd opened my mouth to protest, but what could I say? He was right.

"I'm not angry," he continued. "I was, at first. But now I'm just... tired. Tired of chasing someone who doesn't want to be caught."

"That's not—" I'd started, but he cut me off with a gentle shake of his head.

"It is. And that's okay. You're allowed to not be ready. You're allowed to need space or time or whatever it is you're looking for.But I can't keep doing this dance, Geri. I can't keep investing in someone who runs at the first sign of depth."

His words had hit me like physical blows, each one landing with perfect accuracy. Because he was right. Of course he was right. I did run. I always ran. It was the one thing I was consistently good at.

"I'm sorry," I'd whispered, the words feeling wholly inadequate.

"I know you are." His expression had softened slightly. "And I believe you mean it. But being sorry doesn't change anything if you're just going to do the same thing next time you get scared."