Page 23 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lyla

I shut the door and press my back to it, my pulse so loud in my ears it drowns out the rest of the house.

The note is still in my hand. It feels heavier than paper should — like it’s been weighted with ten years of secrets.

I want to throw it. Tear it. Burn it until the ashes scatter and I can pretend I never saw the way my brother’s handwriting curved into finality.

Instead, I set it on my nightstand like it might cut me if I hold it any longer.

I sink onto the bed and press my palms into my eyes until I see bursts of light. But even in the dark behind my eyelids, I can’t stop replaying it — Damien’s voice, the storm in his eyes, the way he said he was mad at Aaron… and the rest.

My brother, standing on a cliff in the middle of a storm. My brother, hurt not just by his depression but by the person he trusted most.

And then… Damien making me promises in the dark. Damien holding me like I’m the only thing that matters. Damien knowing all along what really happened that night.

It’s like every moment between us shatters in my hands, sharp edges catching on my skin.

The worst part is, some selfish piece of me still wants him here. Still wants his arms around me, telling me that even if it’s all broken, we can put it back together.

I hate that I want that.

The next morning, I tell myself I’m too busy to cross the street.

It’s not a lie. Mom wakes up disoriented, calling for Aaron, and it takes half an hour of tea and gentle coaxing to settle her into breakfast. By the time I’m done cleaning the kitchen, the laundry basket is full, and my email inbox is overflowing.

I keep my head down, moving from one task to the next. I even open a new document and tell myself I’m going to outline my next podcast episode.

But the whole time, I’m aware of the faint hum of machinery across the street. The sound of a saw starting, stopping. The thump of a hammer.

Damien.

Every time I pass the front window, my gaze drifts there. I catch glimpses — his shadow through a half-open garage door, the swing of his arm as he carries lumber to the side of the house.

And then my chest tightens, and I force myself to keep walking.

It’s not hard to avoid him when he’s at the Lawson house and I’m here.

But the small-town closeness works against me — Mrs. Bennett from two doors down stops me on the sidewalk to say she saw “me and my fella” working on the porch together earlier this week.

Someone comments on my social post from Friday with a dozen heart emojis.

It’s like the whole town is in on something I’m no longer sure I want to be part of.

And still, at night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling and feel the weight of the folded note on my nightstand.

The days blur together, each one a little grayer than the last.

No texts. No calls. Not even a knock on the door. Just the constant hum of work across the street — the buzz of a saw, the rhythmic smack of a hammer, voices of other men joining in as the week goes on.

By Wednesday, there’s a whole crew at the Lawson place. Trucks parked along the curb, ladders leaning against the siding, music spilling faintly from a radio somewhere. It’s easier to ignore him when he’s part of a crowd.

Easier, but not easy.

Every once in a while, I catch myself pausing at the window, scanning for him. My eyes find the curve of his shoulders, the easy way he moves — and then I force myself to look away.

Nights are worse. The quiet feels too big, my mom’s restless murmurs drifting down the hall.

On Friday, just after midnight, I hear it — the low rumble of his motorcycle starting. I stand in the dark at my bedroom window, watching the taillight fade down the road until it’s gone.

And then… nothing.

Saturday, Sunday — no Damien. His house sits quiet and still.

By Monday morning, the sadness has settled so deep it feels like a stone in my chest. I bundle Mom into a coat and take her for a walk to the corner café, hoping the fresh air will shake something loose.

The bell over the café door jingles as I guide Mom inside, helping her out of her gloves.

And that’s when I see him.

Colton.

He’s at the counter, baseball cap pulled low, tapping his card against the register while the barista hands him a to-go cup. He turns, and the second his eyes land on me, his brows lift in surprise.

“Lyla?” he says, stepping toward me. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Colton,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Hey.”

He looks at me, then over my shoulder at Mom, his expression softening instantly. “Hi, Mrs. Hart. It’s… been a long time.”

She tilts her head like she’s trying to place him, then offers a polite smile before drifting toward an empty table.

I turn back to him. “You headed somewhere?”

He nods toward the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Flying back to training camp. Just grabbing a coffee for the road.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that fills with everything unsaid. My stomach twists.

“Can I ask you something?” I finally say.

His brows lift. “Sure.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” My voice is quieter than I mean for it to be, but the words come anyway. “When we were together. When I was falling apart after Aaron… you were there, Colton. You saw me. You knew.”

He exhales slowly, looking down at the lid of his coffee like it holds the right answer. “Because it wasn’t my story to tell.”

I blink at him.

“You were grieving,” he says gently. “And Damien… he was drowning in his own guilt. More than you probably realize. I figured if you were meant to know, it would come from him. Not from me.”

There’s no edge in his voice, no judgment. Just something quiet and honest.

“Damien was… messed up after that night,” Colton adds after a moment. “I don’t think he’s ever really stopped blaming himself.”

I press my lips together, the ache in my chest deepening.

Colton glances toward the door, then back at me. “I’m sorry you had to hear it this way. I’m sorry for all of it.”

I nod, but the words stick in my throat.

The bell over the café door jingles behind me as I step into the cool air. Mom shuffles beside me, her arm looped through mine, sipping carefully from her cup.

We take the long way home. Not because I want to, but because I’m not ready to walk past Damien’s house.

Colton’s voice keeps replaying in my head. Damien was messed up after that night. I don’t think he’s ever stopped blaming himself.

I picture him ten years ago, twenty and angry, carrying the weight of my brother’s death like a chain around his neck.

And then I think about the last few weeks — every look he’s given me, every touch, every stolen moment — and I realize how much it must have cost him to keep his promise to Aaron all these years.

He stayed away from me not because he didn’t want me… but because he did.

And suddenly, I’m not just grieving Aaron. I’m grieving for Damien too — for the man who’s been punishing himself for a decade, denying himself what he wanted most because of loyalty to a friend who isn’t here to see it.

The ache in my chest feels heavier than the coffee in my hands.

When we finally turn onto our street, the Lawson house is quiet. Damien’s truck is gone. His motorcycle, too.

I get Mom settled inside and linger by the window for a moment, staring at the dark, empty driveway across the street.

I’ve never felt more alone.