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Chapter Thirty-Three

Austen

I swivel back and forth in my chair, sketchpad in my lap as I try to figure out what’s… missing.

I’ve sketched Ari, the main lead character in A War of Fire & Ice for years. Technically, I’ve been drawing him since high school, since the idea of creating A War of Fire & Ice came to me one night while Cam and I were up late playing video games.

You’d think after all these years, I’d have him down to a T, but every rendition just doesn’t feel right, and every time I try to research what’s popular and trending in the development community, it changes.

I blow out a breath as the wind picks up outside, the tree branches rustling against my office window.

There’s a thunderstorm warning for our area, but it hasn’t started yet, though I kind of wish it would.

I love when it storms. I find it relaxing, the sound of the rain, the rumble of the thunder. Light some candles and grab a glass of wine and my sketchpad, and I’m in my element.

But tonight, it seems like they keep putting off the warning, and I think it might not actually happen. I mean, when is the weather actually accurate?

I toss my sketchpad on my desk, which knocks over my notepad onto the floor. I bend down to grab it, realizing it’s my unfinished list.

Shit. I look at all the unchecked boxes, realizing I haven’t packed a thing like I’d meant to do earlier this week.

I leave in two days for New York, and I haven’t done a thing.

Usually, I have my bags ready to go at least a week ahead of time.

But I guess I’ve been distracted lately, ever since Savannah got home.

She’s been… more distant than usual. Every time I ask her if she’s okay, she just glares at me.

I’m pretty sure she’s gone through her weekly supply of cheese already, and I just stocked the fridge yesterday.

I know her job is stressful, even if she doesn’t say it. I’ve watched her go from cashier at Sechea’s boutique in the city to manager to regional manager, all the way up to junior production assistant over the course of seven years.

She worked her ass off to get to where she is, and the rise up the Sechea ladder hasn’t been an easy transition for her. But ever since she came home from her shoot in California, she’s been extra bitchy.

I sigh as the wind knocks the branches against my window, figuring now is as good a time as ever to start packing. I grab my sketchpad and some pencils, thinking it might not be a bad idea to bring them along in case I get inspired.

Last time, when I visited the Met, I wished I had remembered to bring my sketchpad. I could’ve done a study of the Study of a Nude Man .

I smirk at my own joke. Call it Nude-Ception.

Just as I turn the corner and enter the kitchen, I see Savannah, hunched over the island. Her shoulders are tense and she’s staring at her phone.

I don’t stop, since she never really notices my presence half the time, and I’m more than used to my wife ignoring me.

But tonight, she looks up from her phone, as I head to my room.

She follows me, and I’m acutely aware of her gaze on me, but it doesn’t feel warm or friendly. I open the door to my room, figuring this is where she’ll leave me and head for hers, but she doesn’t.

She leans in the doorway instead, keeping her distance as I toss my sketchpad and pencils on my bed. I reach in my closet, pull down my suitcase and say, “Is there something you need?”

I toss the suitcase on my bed, unzip it, and flash my attention to her. She stands there, dressed in a form-fitting blue dress that makes her breasts look bigger than they actually are. Once upon a time, I might have looked, might have even thought it was sexy, but Savannah is nothing but an illusion. Even now, standing in my doorway, she looks impeccable. Long, bouncy golden curls and expertly cut bangs, lip liner the perfect shade of nude, lashes that are thick and full and stand out against her pale skin.

But none of it is real, and she doesn’t look right. In my room. She barely sets a foot in here, like the floor is made of lava.

“You’re not seriously going on this trip still, are you?” she asks, her voice flat.

I gesture to my suitcase. “I wouldn’t be packing if I wasn’t,” I say bitterly as I head to my dresser. I open my underwear drawer, pulling out at least twelve pairs even though I’m only going to be gone for five days. That’s two pairs a day, plus extra in case I get the shits. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m not taking any chances. I’d rather have extra packed and not use them, than to not pack enough and be screwed.

“When are you going to give this up?” she asks, twisting her lips. I raise a brow at her as I refold my underwear, rolling them so they fit better in the suitcase.

“Give what up?” I ask, rolling another pair and placing them inside.

“This stupid video game thing,” she says with a huff. “It’s never going to happen, Austen. You have to know that.”

Anger flares within me at her words, because they aren’t the first time I’ve heard them.

“Yes, it is,” I bite back. I head back to the dresser, pulling out some button downs, spreading them out on the bed so I can fold them to fit in my suitcase.

I’ve got a system, and it works pretty well, though my brother calls it Suitcase Tetris, like basic organization is some form of OCD.

I’m pretty sure it’s common knowledge to fold your clothes this way, though. At least if you do a lot of traveling. Which I don’t, but…

She scoffs. “No, it’s not. Seriously. How many places have you looked at? You’ve been doing this bullshit for years, squirreling away in your fucking office with your little sketches and fantasizing. But we both know you’re never going to actually buy a place.”

I shoot her another glare. “I told you. If I find the right place…”

She shakes her head. “You won’t. You don’t take risks, Austen. It’ll never happen, because you need everything to be perfect, and it’ll never be perfect.”

Something about her words cut me deep. Deeper than they should. I stare at her, and I can see the bitterness in her expression.

“Unless…” She stands up straighter, dropping her arms to her sides. She looks me up and down as I unfold two pairs of jeans, two pairs of chinos, and some black dress pants in case of impromptu fancy dinners. Again, not that I expect to go anywhere fancy, but it’s good to be prepared.

“Unless you aren’t going because of the properties…”

I stiffen at her tone, annoyed with her sudden interest in my plans. Usually she leaves me alone, so why is she up my ass all of a sudden?

What did I do to deserve her attention that I haven’t done in seven years?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bite. Her tone is accusatory.

Savannah twists her lips. “I think you know exactly what I mean, Austen,” she says bitterly. I throw the rest of my clothes in the suitcase. “Or rather who.”

Her voice carries a hint of jealousy and my jaw tenses.

“You keep Cam out of this. This trip has nothing to do with him,” I say.

“So you’re not going to see him at all, then?”

My jaw tenses as I grind it because her words are full of bitterness. She’s never liked Cam. I’m sure those lost years were a victory for her, and that realization angers me just as much as her words.

“Of course I’m going to see him, Savannah. He’s my best friend.”

Savannah shakes her head.

“You’re wasting your time. On him, the same man who didn’t speak to you for seven damn years, who all of a sudden wants to be your bestie again? Talk about sus, Austen,” she nips. “You are wasting all your time and potential on this… dream.” She waves around the room. “This fantasy nerd shit that I thought you’d have grown out of by now.”

I have to focus on my breathing because every word is a stab to my gut.

“It’s time to be a fucking adult and give up these stupid childish—”

The hurricane in me breaks at her words, and I grip the sheets beneath my suitcase.

“You have a lot of fucking nerve, Savannah, you know that?”

Her sapphire eyes meet mine as anxiety starts to swell within me, as the tears threaten to rise from their depths.

“I—”

“You call me childish, but I’m not the one who throws fucking temper tantrums when she doesn’t get what she wants. At least I’m not the one who’s so fucking fake she has no real friends . ”

I grab my sketchpad and throw it on top of my clothes, heading for the bathroom to grab my skincare stuff and my travel toothbrush set.

“I don’t need friends!” she yells. “News flash, this isn’t high school! You’re twenty-eight years old, and it’s time to grow up, Austen! Focus on a real career, a real—”

“Grow up? I have done everything you have ever asked of me, Savannah, and I have put my dreams, my goals, on hold for you. Because that’s what a grown man does for his wife.”

“Oh, come off it. I didn’t ask you to—”

“I don’t ask for shit from you!” I say, the words too sweet on my tongue. They’ve been festering for too long, waiting to be said.

Savannah blinks, stunned by my words, and I can’t blame her.

“Bullshit! You’ve asked me for plenty of things,” she nips, her gaze flashing from my face to my chest, and then back up. The judgment in her gaze is evident as she scowls at me.

My jaw tenses. “Oh, you mean your love and affection? I shouldn’t have to ask for those things. Those things should be easy to give.”

She gapes at me like I’m the asshole, and maybe I am. Because I can’t stop the flurry of seven years of suffering unleashing itself.

“Maybe if you looked up from your fucking phone once in awhile, you’d notice I stopped begging you for your goddamn attention years ago. I don’t need it now , ” I bite. “Not that you’d give it, anyway, unless it benefited you in some way.”

“You think I’m selfish?” she snaps.

“If the Louboutin fits,” I hiss.

“You never think of anyone but yourself. It’s all about you, isn’t it? You need all the attention so you can feel seen. You’re so fucking needy. God.”

Needy? Me? All I’ve ever done is shelf my own damn needs!

Before I can respond, she sets her hands on her hips and glares at me.

“You just can’t let me be successful and happy, because oh, what about you ? Boo fucking hoo. Cry me a river, Austen.”

I zip up the suitcase, my blood hot, and my stomach in knots.

I can’t do this with her. I fucking can’t.

It’s not the first time we’ve had this fight.

And it won’t be the last.

So I do the grown-up thing. I push past her, throw my travel bag in the front pocket of my suitcase, zip it up and grab it to head for the door.

“Where the fuck do you think you are going?” she yells, her voice panicked.

“Anywhere but here.” I say solidly. A part of me breaks, hearing the shakiness in my voice.

I grab the keys to the Escalade out of the bowl and throw open the door. Lightning strikes and the rain pours, but I keep going, keep moving. I don’t expect Savannah to leave the warm, dry house and chase after me.

If I open my mouth, I’m going to lose it and start crying.

Just once, I wish she would forget about her insecurities and expectations, and leave her comfortable bubble. The bubble I built for her with the choices I made.

God, we’re like a shitty Hallmark movie in reverse. Big City Fashion Girl and Small Town Boy Next Door get married and become fucking strangers.

I want to matter. I want to be enough . Tears sting my eyes as I realize I will never be enough for Savannah.

And maybe I never was to begin with.

“Austen!” she yells, but her voice is far away. I unlock the trunk, throwing my suitcase in the back. The rain picks up, practically drowning me. I open the driver side door and start the car.

“Austen Thomas Brewer you get your ass back here right now!” Savannah hollers, but her pleas are lost on me.

Maybe a better man would listen, would stay and try to work it out.

But I’m not a good man. Clearly. Because I don’t want to work it out.

I just want to get as far away from this place as I can, so I can breathe.

Her vicious words echo in my brain.

You don’t take risks, Austen. It’ll never happen, because you need everything to be perfect, and it’ll never be perfect.

I shove the words down, a sob threatening to escape my throat. The radio is loud, blasting the croony sounds of Callum Scott’s version of “Dancing On My Own,” and I have to smirk through the tears because the name’s so similar, and the words are a sort of balm. Like a fucking sign.

I pull out of the driveway, holding my breath. I watch as Savannah stands there in the brightly lit doorway, never moving. She just watches me.

God forbid she get wet and make a scene and draw our neighbor’s attention. God forbid anyone know how broken we fucking are.

The tears come easily, as the light and Savannah get smaller.

I don’t know where I’m going, all I know is I need to go.

So that’s what I focus on. The lights, the soft strings of this terrible weepy radio station that I can’t seem to change because the sappy, depressing songs make me feel less alone.

I follow the signs out of town until I’m on the highway, heading north, and I just drive. The windshield wipers wash away the onslaught of rain, but it keeps coming. I stay my course.

It's near two in the morning when I arrive in New York, outside Cam’s building. I hadn’t meant to come here, I tell myself. But it’s a lie because my breaking heart knew the moment I threw my suitcase in the car where I was going.

Home.

I sit in my car, parked on the side of the street for what feels like an eternity before I get out. The rain is steady, and I’m still damp from the downpour at home. But I don’t care right now. It could be a monsoon, and I wouldn’t care. It’s fitting for how I feel. Like I’m drowning in my failures, like I’ve fucked up again because I can’t be the person Savannah wants me to be.

Some ATM machine without feelings or dreams.

Someone she can control. Funny, because she always called me the controlling one.

My fingers hover over my unsent text message.

It’s just three letters, but somehow it feels like so much more. It feels like a lifeline.

I don’t know if he’s awake, and even if he is…

I’m sure the last thing he needs right now is a messed up Austen who doesn’t have his shit together. Pretty sure no one needs that.

I stare up at the top floor window. It’s dark.

My heart aches as I think about leaving. About finding some mediocre bar to drink away my pain or some freshly made king-sized bed that will only illuminate how alone I am.

That’s what I should do. It’s what most heartbroken men would do after a fight with their wife.

But it’s not what I want, and it’s certainly not what I need.

So I hit the send button.

Hey

The rain drenches me, raindrops clinging to my lashes and making my vision blurry, my clothes clinging to me like a second skin.

I turn around, figuring he’s probably asleep since there’s no response and the light’s still out.

But as I turn around, my phone vibrates.

I glance at it, three little letters bringing me more relief than they should.

Hey.

He texts me immediately after.

You ok?

My tears mix with the rain as I tap out my response.

No. Can I come up?

I stand on the sidewalk, my heart racing along with my mind.

I don’t get a response, so I figure he didn’t see it and went back to sleep. Deciding I should leave, I turn around to head back towards my car, when I hear him calling my name.

I turn to see him standing in the open doorway, shirtless, wearing Ninja Turtle pajama pants, of all things. And then he does the craziest thing.

He runs down the steps, into the rain, his bare feet splashing puddles all the way down the steps until he’s in front of me. His eyebrows furrow as he looks at me, and I come undone.

“Austen?” His voice is full of concern, and I hate it. The sympathy, the judgment. The shock.

But I love it, too.

I look back at him with blurry eyes, my voice cracking as I speak.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” I say, but it’s not entirely true. I could have gone anywhere.

But I didn’t want anywhere . I wanted home, and Cameron has always been home, even if I didn’t see it before, or more likely—refused to see it.

He slides an arm around my shoulders, the motion pulling me closer to him, and I don’t fight it.

“Come on,” he says, his voice soft, careful. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering from the cold rain and the forced air as he leads me into the building.