Page 32 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

“Thank you,” she says, her voice quiet. “For… all of your support.”

I almost say “anytime”, but that doesn’t feel strong enough. So instead, I nod, holding her gaze for a moment longer.

She disappears through the door and up to her room, and I stand there a beat longer than necessary, cool air biting at my skin, already planning how to make sure tomorrow goes smoothly.

And if Brad so much as looks at her wrong…

He’ll have more than regret to deal with.

Chapter Nine

AVA

Last night, I told Jackson I was ready to go back to my old apartment and get the rest of my things.

But now that it’s almost time, my stomach has other ideas.

I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around a mug I haven’t taken a sip from in ten minutes. The tea’s gone lukewarm, but I don’t move. My back is too rigid, my shoulders too tense.

It’s like if I hold myself still enough, the dread won’t catch up.

Even though it’s been less than a week since the wedding, the idea of going back to the apartment I shared with Brad already feels like a different lifetime.

But my things are still there. Books I’ve had since college. Notebooks filled with scribbled ideas for Open Pages. My car.

Pieces of my life I need to get back to move forward.

I stare out the window at the tree branches blowing in the wind.

Please don’t let Brad be home.

A soft knock breaks the silence.

“Come in,” I call, and my voice cracks slightly.

Miss Taylor pokes her head in, holding a mug in one hand.

“I thought you might need a new cup,” she says gently. “Chamomile.”

She steps in, sets it gently on the nightstand, and takes my long cold mug. “If you need anything, let me know. It’s pretty quiet until I pick up the kiddos.”

“Thank you, Miss Taylor.”

She nods once, then slips back out and closes the door behind her.

After she leaves, I sit for another minute, gathering myself and sipping tea.

By the time Jackson walks through the door, I’m already waiting by the stairs. His gym bag is slung over one shoulder, hair still tousled from the locker room shower.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just studies me, his eyes scanning mine like he’s checking in.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I admit. “But I need to do it.”

A short nod, and that’s all it takes. We walk out together, silence stretching between us like thread. Taut, but holding.

Jackson doesn’t say much on the drive, just follows the directions from my phone with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easily in his lap. The silence isn’t awkward. It feels intentional. Like he knows I’m holding myself together and doesn’t want to risk knocking anything loose.