Page 24 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lyla

T he email comes just after ten in the morning.

Congratulations, Lyla — we’re thrilled to sponsor your show for the next twelve months.

I read it twice, then a third time, waiting for it to sink in. This is the deal I’ve been chasing for weeks — the reason I even came up with the ridiculous lie that started everything.

I should feel elated. I should be popping a bottle of something and dancing in the kitchen.

Instead, I just sit there, staring at the blinking cursor in my reply window, wondering who I’m supposed to tell.

Mom’s humming to herself in the living room, watching the same nature documentary she’s played three times this week. And Damien…

Damien’s still gone.

I close the laptop and carry a basket of laundry to the front window. That’s when I see it.

A man in a polo shirt is hammering a wooden post into the front lawn of the Lawson house. A red-and-white For Sale sign swings from it, the words fresh and glossy.

I set the laundry basket down slowly, my chest tightening.

The house was his project. His parents’ home. The place he’s been pouring himself into for weeks. Seeing that sign makes something sharp twist in my gut — like it’s proof he’s leaving again. Proof I was just a chapter he’s already closing.

The man steps back, dusts off his hands, and gets into a car with Sandpiper Realty painted on the side.

By the time I remember to breathe, the sign is standing alone on the lawn, bright against the weathered siding.

I fold laundry mechanically, my mind miles away, the sponsorship email open on my phone but unread all over again.

I thought getting what I wanted would feel different.

I close the bedroom door and wedge myself into the small closet I’ve claimed as my recording space. The sponsorship packet is printed and sitting on the desk beside my mic — bullet points about how to read the ad, what phrases to hit, the timing.

I should be excited. This is what I’ve been working toward.

I press record.

“Hi, everyone… it’s Lyla,” I start, my voice steady out of habit. “I want to begin today with some really exciting news. We have our very first official sponsor.”

I hit the points — the company name, the offer code, the benefits — but the words feel hollow in my mouth, like I’m reading someone else’s script.

When it’s time to move into the episode, I hesitate. I’d planned to talk about milestones in the grieving process. About how we sometimes mark them with external changes — a new job, a move, a relationship.

The word catches in my throat. Relationship.

I think about the heat in Damien’s eyes when he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room. The quiet way he’d fix something in my mom’s house without me asking. The way he smelled when I buried my face in his chest.

My voice wavers. I clear my throat, try again, but it’s useless.

“You ever have someone come into your life and make it… complicated?” I say, my tone softer now. “Like they light up corners you didn’t even realize had gone dark… and suddenly you’re terrified of what happens when they’re gone again?”

The words hang in the air. I can feel them, like they’re echoing back at me from the foam-padded walls.

I stop the recording and bury my face in my hands.

The sponsor is going to get their clean, upbeat ad. My listeners will get a polished episode. But right now, I’m not sure I have either in me.

I don’t go to Aaron’s room often.

It’s still the same as the day we lost him. The faded blue comforter, the crooked poster of his favorite band, the baseball glove on the shelf with his name inked inside. Dust coats the edges of everything, like time just… stopped here.

I push the door open and step inside, careful like I might disturb something.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I run my fingers over the quilt. It’s soft in places, threadbare in others — worn down by years of us piling on it during movie marathons or late-night talks.

For a while, I just breathe. In. Out. Like maybe I can catch the ghost of his scent if I’m quiet enough.

“I don’t know why I came in here,” I say softly, my voice catching in the still air. “Maybe because I don’t know who else to talk to right now.”

I look at the framed photo on his desk — the three of us at the pier. Aaron grinning, Colton with his arm around him, Damien standing off to the side but watching, always watching.

“You were wrong about him, Aaron.” My throat tightens, but I push through it. “Damien’s… he’s kind. And thoughtful. And the way he looks at me…” I trail off, shaking my head. “He cared about what you thought. More than you probably ever realized.”

I swallow hard. “If you can forgive him, I think I could too.”

The silence swallows the words, but somehow I feel lighter for having said them.

I smooth the comforter, stand, and glance back at the door. For just a second, I imagine him leaning there, arms crossed, that teasing smile on his face. Took you long enough, he’d say.

But there’s no one there. Just me, and the hum of the heater as it kicks on.