Page 18 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Eighteen

Damien

I f I could freeze this moment, I would.

The sun slanting through the kitchen window, Damien leaning back in his chair, his dark hair still damp from the shower we took hours ago. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth when I tell him my sandwich is better than his.

It’s simple. Easy. Too easy.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because every time I let myself sink into the comfort of this — of him — Colton’s voice cuts in like a crack in glass. Ask him about the night Aaron died. Ask him why he really left.

I take another bite of my sandwich to keep from saying something I’m not ready for.

Damien’s watching me, though. Always watching. Like he knows I’m holding something back but isn’t going to press. He just pours me more coffee, his fingers brushing mine when he slides the mug closer.

It’s such a small thing, but it makes my pulse trip. I’m supposed to be faking this. We’re supposed to be playing a part. But sitting here, the lines between real and pretend are blurring so fast I’m not sure they were ever that clear to begin with.

I look at him, really look, and my chest tightens. I remember every time I caught myself staring at him years ago, wondering what it would be like if he looked back at me the same way. Now he is — and it’s a dangerous thing.

I’m halfway through telling Damien about a ridiculous listener voicemail I got last week when the creak of the hallway floorboards makes me glance toward the doorway.

Mom stands there in her robe, her hair a little mussed, eyes darting between us like she’s walked into the wrong house.

“Mom,” I say softly. “You should be resting—”

Her gaze lands on Damien, and her expression changes in an instant — confusion sharpening into something else. Recognition. Hurt.

“You.” Her voice cracks on the word. “You were there. You were with him that night.”

The air in the kitchen turns cold.

Damien goes still, his coffee cup frozen halfway to the table. “Elaine—”

“You were supposed to take care of him,” she says, her voice rising. “You were supposed to bring him home.” Her hands are shaking now, and it’s the look in her eyes that does me in — like she’s seeing two ghosts instead of two men.

I push back my chair and stand. “Mom, stop—”

She turns to me, eyes wet. “Why would you bring him here, Lyla? Why would you—” Her voice catches, and she presses a hand to her mouth.

“I think I should go,” Damien says quietly, already standing.

“No,” I start, but he’s avoiding my eyes, heading for the door with a kind of careful, controlled movement that feels worse than if he’d slammed it on his way out.

The silence he leaves behind is heavy, pressing on my chest.

I turn back to Mom, who’s staring at the floor now, her anger already softening into confusion again. “Lyla? Did I… did I say something wrong?”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “No, Mom. It’s okay. Let’s get you back to bed.”

But it’s not okay. Not even close.

Damien

The door closes behind me, but her voice follows me all the way across the street.

You were supposed to take care of him. You were supposed to bring him home.

I walk down the steps, my boots hitting the pavement harder than I mean to. The salt air is sharp in my lungs, but it doesn’t cut through the weight pressing on my chest.

I’ve heard those words before — not in her voice, but in my own head. More nights than I can count.

I told myself I could handle being around Elaine again, that enough time had passed, that her memory slipping would make it easier.

But the look in her eyes when she saw me…

that wasn’t the disease talking. That was a mother remembering the last time she saw her son alive, and me standing right there beside him.

And the worst part? She’s not wrong.

I step onto the porch of the Lawson house, my hands curled into fists, and for the first time since I got back, I want to pack up and leave. It’d be easier than letting Lyla look at me and wonder the same damn thing her mom just said out loud.

Because I saw her face in that moment — the flicker of hurt, the question she didn’t ask.

And I’m not sure I could give her an answer that wouldn’t ruin everything.

Lyla

The sun’s gone down by the time I finally work up the nerve.

Mom’s asleep — at least for now — and the house is quiet enough that I can hear my own heartbeat. It’s the only sound that follows me as I cross the street, the cold air biting at my cheeks.

The Lawson house looms darker than usual, no light in the front windows. For a second, I wonder if he’s already gone.

But when I step up onto the porch, I see the faint glow spilling from the back, through the thin crack of the open door.

I knock anyway. “Damien? It’s me.”

There’s a long pause before his footsteps come down the hall. When he appears, he’s got his sweatshirt on, hood pushed back, hair still damp from a shower. He doesn’t look surprised to see me — just tired.

“Your mom okay?” he asks, voice low.

“She’s fine. She… doesn’t even remember it now.”

He nods, glancing away. “That’s good.”

I shift on my feet. “I didn’t come over to talk about her memory.”

His eyes find mine again, something guarded in the way he studies me. “Then what did you come over for?”

I take a breath, the words crowding in my throat. To say I’m sorry. To tell you she was wrong. To ask if she was right.

But all I manage is, “I just… I didn’t want to leave it like that.”

For a second, neither of us moves. Then he steps back, opening the door wider.

“Come in.”