Page 87 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start

Jack’s voice carries over the crash of waves. “Scout! Get back here, you maniac!”

I slow down to see Jack jogging toward me, hair sticking up like he wrestled with his pillow and lost. Brett trails behind him, looking equally disheveled but more resigned to the early morning chaos.

“He spotted a seagull,” Jack pants as he catches up. “Decided it was his personal mission to make friends.”

“How’d that go?” Brett asks, joining our impromptu group.

“The seagull declined his offer,” Jack says dryly.

We fall into step together, Scout racing ahead to investigate every piece of seaweed and driftwood like he’s conducting a scientific survey of the beach.

“You’re up early,” Brett observes, shooting me a sideways look. “Everything okay?”

The question hits harder than it should because nothing is okay. Everything is devastatingly wrong, and it’s entirely my fault.

“Yeah,” I lie, focusing on keeping my breathing steady. “Just needed to clear my head.”

“Dangerous activity,” Jack mutters. “Thinking at dawn. That’s how you end up making terrible decisions.”

He has no idea how accurate that assessment is.

The three of us run in companionable silence for a few minutes, our footsteps creating a steady rhythm against the backdrop of crashing waves. Scout continues his enthusiastic exploration ahead of us, occasionally doubling back to make sure we’re keeping up with his important work.

“So,” Brett says finally, because apparently he’s incapable of leaving well enough alone, “want to talk about whatever’s eating you alive, or are we pretending this is just a casual dawn jog?”

I stumble slightly, caught off guard by his directness. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right. And I’m out here at sunrise because I love freezing my tushie off while running through sand.”

Jack laughs. “Brett’s got a point. We’re all here because something’s driving us crazy enough to voluntarily exercise before the sun’s fully up.”

“I like running,” I protest weakly.

“You like running when you’re trying to outrun your problems,” Brett corrects with the brutal honesty that makes him both infuriating and oddly comforting. “Trust me, I recognize the signs.”

The accuracy of his observation makes my chest tight. Because that’s exactly what I’m doing—trying to run fast enough and far enough to escape the memory of Michelle’s face when I chose professional safety over everything we’d built together.

“It’s complicated,” I say finally.

“The best things usually are,” Jack replies, echoing something I’ve heard him say before. “Doesn’t mean they’re not worth fighting for.”

Fighting for.The phrase sticks in my throat because fighting for Michelle would mean telling her the truth about Norris, which would mean admitting that my attempt to protect her might have made everything worse.

“What if fighting for something means risking everything you’re trying to protect?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Brett and Jack exchange a look over my head that suggests they’re having an entire conversation without words.

“Depends,” Brett says carefully. “Are you protecting the thing itself, or are you protecting yourself from the possibility of losing it?”

The question hits like a punch to the gut because I know the answer, and it’s not flattering.

“Both,” I admit quietly.

“Yeah,” Jack says with understanding that makes me wonder what battles he’s fought in his own relationship. “That’s the hardest kind of protection. When you can’t tell the difference between keeping a person safe and keeping yourself safe from them.”

Scout suddenly veers toward us, clearly deciding we’ve been far too serious for far too long. He bounds straight at Brett with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests he’s about to share his joy whether Brett wants it or not.

“Oh, no—” Brett starts, but Scout’s already launching himself at Brett’s chest with the force of a furry missile.