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Chapter Forty-Seven

Austen

I stare at the phone, ring after ring, waiting for the courage to pick it up, but it doesn’t come.

I wait to see if he’ll leave a voicemail, but he doesn’t.

He hasn’t since two weeks ago, when I left.

The night my entire life fell to pieces.

Mack knocks into my shoulder with a heavy box. “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually,” he says. I slip my phone back into my back pocket, avoiding his judgmental glare.

“I know, but I’m just…” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “One fire at a time, Mack.”

Mack narrows his gaze at me as if he wants to say something—which Mack’s never had a problem saying what he means—but before he can get a word out, we’re interrupted.

“What about the espresso machine?” Alex asks, holding up the too-large appliance in my former kitchen.

“Uh…” I take a look at the giant machine, which covers my brother’s face.

“I don’t think that will fit through the door of my apartment,” I say, still feeling the waves of anxiety when I say that word.

Apartment.

My parents didn’t take the news of my divorce very well, but I think they were pissed about letting Savannah have the house more than anything else because it had been our wedding present.

My lawyer thought I was nuts too, but there was no point in me staying in a four bedroom house that never felt like home and Savannah would have dragged this out otherwise.

No, my deal was Savannah could have the house and we could walk away with an amicable split down the middle. She kept her assets, and I kept mine. Then we could both go our separate ways, and I could finally leave this town and live my life the way I envisioned it all those years ago.

Only this time it’s on my terms.

Besides, the house never felt like mine from the moment I walked in it.

“Maybe you can sell janky lattes out of your shitty little apartment,” Mack jabs.

“Or maybe—” Alex’s voice kicks up with excitement, and I can’t help but crack a smile and be glad he’s here to make this depressing day a little better. One glance at my watch tells me we have just under an hour before Savannah gets home for her mid-morning break, and I don’t want to see her any more than I have to.

Which my lawyer said was “wise.”

“Put the espresso machine back,” I say with a sigh. “I’m sure a coffee maker will be just fine.”

Alex clutches it to his chest. “Well if you don’t want it, I’m taking it. I bought it.”

I roll my eyes as Mack grabs the machine off of him, cursing him.

The last thing I expected was for either of them to step up like they have in the last week. I’ve never known either of them to be the dependable type, but they haven’t left my side since I showed up, and when I told them everything—including what happened between Cam and I, if only because the lawyer said he needed to know in case things got ugly and Mack and Alex were literally trying to not be obvious about eavesdropping and failing miserably—they were surprisingly supportive.

Though neither was surprised, apparently, that Cam and I hooked up in Vegas, and neither was surprised we’d made up and ended up where we were. My brother didn’t seem to be shocked at my admissions and instead told me it must be genetic. When I asked him what he meant, he just brushed me off, teasing me and saying, “I’ll tell ya when you’re older,” like I’m not turning twenty-nine in just a few months.

Whatever, the less drama I have to deal with, the better, and as fun and supportive as Alex is right now, it’s only a matter of time before something blows up in his face. He’s not the kind of guy to play anything safe, not like me.

Except, maybe there’s something to be said that playing it safe didn’t work out so well in the end, did it?

I follow Mack out the door with another box of clothes, expertly loading it into the back of the car. When we’ve squared the boxes in, Mack leans against the back of the open trunk, and I do the same. We’ve been loading boxes for an hour and I’m pretty sure we’re almost done. I don’t have much I want to take to New York, save for some clothes and shower stuff and my bedding. All the decor, and the stupid little knick-knacks and artwork, none of it was my style or choice.

“You know…” he starts, his voice strangely caring. I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately, but he’s been more present than ever before. Checking in on me with texts, offering to take me out for drinks after work . It’s not weird, it’s actually kind of nice, but it makes me feel a little bit like aliens have abducted my friend.

Maybe he’s seeing someone. That would explain the sudden threads upgrade and the weird warmth. I’m pretty sure Mack’s been a grumpy single man since I got married.

“What?” I say with a sigh. That tone tells me I’m probably not going to like what he says, but he’s going to say it anyway.

Nice to know some things haven’t changed where Mack is concerned.

“We’ve been friends, what? Like ten, twelve years, right?” he says, not looking at me. I shrug.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So like, I’ve kind of watched you play this game for a long time,” he says, shifting his gaze to the driveway.

“What game?” I ask.

“Life,” he says softly. “I’ve been watching you for years. You play your ass off, there’s no doubt about that, but your problem is every time you get close to the goal, you choke.”

I turn to look at him with a surprised expression. “Excuse me?” I say, anxiety swelling within me.

“What I mean is…” He sucks in a breath, silently cursing as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Fuck, this isn’t easy for me, man—” he says, and I cross my arms. I’m not sure what he’s trying to say or do, exactly. But I remain quiet, because it looks like he needs to say something. Though I’m not sure I want to hear it if he keeps insulting me in the process.

“You’ve been getting pummeled for a while, and I think… you just decided to sit on the bench and stop playing. Altogether.”

“Are you saying I gave up?” I ask, feeling strangely on the spot. “On my marriage, on my—” I sigh. “Because I know I—”

Mack purses his lips. “No, you didn’t give up. You were just afraid you’d never make the goal, so you benched yourself.” He lets out a deep sigh. “Thing is, Austen, you keep forgetting one very important thing.”

I scoff, shaking my head. The birds chirp and the sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day.

“What’s that?” I turn to face him.

Mack smirks. “You’re a fucking wide receiver, man. You were made for the long shot.”

I have to chuckle a bit at his metaphor.

“This isn’t college anymore, Mack.”

“No, you’re right, it’s not. This is the fucking championship game, man. The big leagues. It’s comeback time.”

I let out a laugh, and then it gets quiet. Neither of us say anything, just sit for a moment, unmoving, until he nudges my shoulder softly.

“Take the shot.” His voice is serious. More serious than I’ve ever heard him.

My eyes instantly want to well with tears because the sincerity in his voice is more than I can handle right now.

His words settle on me, and I feel their weight. Take the shot. Go after what you want.

Go after him.

“What if I miss?” I ask, feeling my chest tighten.

“You won’t,” he says. “Just get off the fucking bench and play the game.”

Before I can respond, he gets up, stretching his arms over his head.

“Better get back in there before he gets into too much trouble,” he says with a grin, and I can’t help but smile.

“Yeah, right.”

I sit in my car, parked in Alex’s driveway, my finger hovering over Cameron’s number.

It’s not the first time and it certainly won’t be the last.

I’ve wanted to call him for the last week, but I also knew I was not in the right frame of mind to deal with anyone, especially Cam.

From the moment I talked with my lawyer, it’s been one thing after the other with this divorce.

Serving Savannah the papers.

My parents reaming me for filing for divorce in the first place.

The whole town gossiping about Savannah’s Victoria Secret Soap Opera show on our lawn in the middle of the night.

My parents giving me shit for giving Savannah the house.

Me actually finding a place in New York that is close to the business and affordable.

The last thing either of us needs right now is me and my mess of a life.

Which is why I can’t call him, not now. I can’t talk to him until I’m out of the fucking trenches.

I need to do this right.

I toss the phone on the passenger seat, and focus on pulling out of the driveway while messing with the radio until I find a station that’s blaring familiar lyrics I can’t ignore. My Chem’s “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)”.

God, this takes me back. Cam and I used to blast this stuff from my car on the way to school in the morning. Something about that makes me smile, so I turn it up, and pretty soon I’m shouting it from the top of my lungs, and it feels good.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about how I sound or who will hear me or if someone will judge me for acting like a teenager when I’m a grown ass adult.

I scream those three words and it’s like an anthem I didn’t know was meant for me.

I’m not okay. Fuck, I am a disaster on wheels, right now.

But maybe I will be o-fucking-kay, one day. And that itself, is enough for now.

It’s nearly two a.m. when I get in. My key is left under the mat, just like Margo said it would be, stuffed in an envelope with a Welcome to New York card. I open the door, the darkness as exhilarating as it is terrifying. I roll my suitcase in and shut the door as I turn on the lights.

It’s a far cry from my four-bedroom house back home, that’s for sure.

It’s a two bedroom apartment with a kitchen the size of a postage stamp and a living room that is barely big enough for four people to rest comfortably in. But the view is nice. A big window that overlooks the city is the focal point. It reminds me of the one in Cam’s place. I stop for a moment, gazing out at the twinkling city lights, and I wonder if he’s awake.

Wonder if he’s looking at the same city view because he can’t sleep, remembering how much I loved them.

Remembering how much I love him.

I slide my phone out, bringing up his contact.

My finger hovers over the text thread that’s been empty for over two weeks now.

The thread is flooded with his apologies, the last one right before he was supposed to leave for Paris. He’s still calling every day, but the calls are becoming fewer.

Maybe he’s still overseas. Maybe it’s wishful thinking to think he’s here, up at two a.m. on a fucking Thursday.

I stare at the city lights and it’s like all the anger I’ve been carrying subsides. I want to be mad at him, for what he did—he lied to me.

But I wasn’t innocent in the matter, either. I didn’t want to acknowledge the truth anymore than he did.

I also know Cam, and I know he wouldn’t have held back such an important thing if he didn’t have a reason. And maybe that reason was because he didn’t want me to blame him for the destruction of my marriage. Because I blamed him once before.

Maybe he wanted to spare me the pain he knew it would cause me. Or, maybe like me, he just wanted to hold on to what was good and fleeting.

I turn away from the window, take a seat on my couch, and lie down. The cushions are a little too soft and sunken in, but I’m so tired, I don’t care.

This place isn’t perfect, but it’s mine.

It’s mine.

And as I close my eyes, I let the exhaustion of the last week hit me, and breathe out a sigh of relief.

Because for the first time in a long time, I finally feel like I’m home.