Page 25 of Falling for Mr. Wrong (The Rules We Break #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Damien

T he room smells faintly of beer and fried food. Not because I’ve been drinking — though God knows I’ve thought about it — but because the place is above the Harbor Light Tavern, and the scent drifts up through the floorboards.

It’s not much. A narrow bed, a bathroom with a door that sticks, a view of the parking lot. But it’s far enough from Lyla’s front porch that I can breathe without wanting to cross the street and beg her to forgive me.

That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about her. Hell, she’s all I think about.

I see her everywhere — in the curve of the coastline when I ride, in the sound of the waves against the pier, in the damn coffee I pour every morning. I tell myself I’m giving her space, but if I’m honest, I’m just scared.

Scared that when the storm in her chest settles, she’ll decide I’m not worth the wreckage.

This morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the realtor.

We met at the Lawson house in the back office, papers spread across the same dining table I grew up eating on. I signed my name over and over until it didn’t look like my name anymore. Told her to list it as-is, price it to move fast.

It’s just a house, I keep telling myself. But standing in those empty rooms, I felt like I was peeling off the last layer of who I used to be.

Still, it’s the right thing. Selling it will give me what I need to help Elaine without her knowing where it came from.

I’ve done enough damage to Lyla. If I can make one thing easier for her — one thing she doesn’t have to carry alone — maybe I can live with myself.

Ronnie shows up just after six, clomping up the narrow stairs two at a time and knocking like he’s trying to beat down the door.

“You hiding from the world or just me?” he asks when I let him in.

“Both,” I mutter, grabbing my jacket. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

We head downstairs to the Harbor Light. The place is half full — fishermen nursing drafts, a couple of tourists in windbreakers sharing a basket of fries, a group of older women at the far table talking like they own the place.

Ronnie and I take stools at the bar. He orders a burger, I stick to a beer. We’re halfway through talking about the siding on the Lawson place when the voices behind us get louder.

“…always said that boy was trouble,” one of the women says. “And now he’s tangled up with Elaine Hart’s daughter? Poor girl.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” another chimes in. “He ran off after her brother died, didn’t he? Left her to deal with it alone.”

My jaw tightens. I stare at the condensation on my glass.

Then a third voice cuts in — warm, certain, and painfully familiar.

“That’s not true.”

I glance over my shoulder. It’s Mrs. Keating, who runs the bakery on Main. “Lyla told me herself, said he’s been nothing but good to her.”

The first woman sniffs. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Mrs. Keating doesn’t flinch. “It’s lasted long enough for her to start smiling again. That’s more than I can say for anyone else in her life lately.”

My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with anger.

Ronnie leans over. “Sounds like somebody’s got your back, man. Even when you’re up here sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Sure you’re not.” He smirks. “Maybe stop hiding and go get the girl. I know you want to.”

I don’t fight him. Instead, I drain the rest of my beer, the idea already burning in my head.

The night air hits me like a slap when I step out of the Harbor Light. Cool, salty, heavy with the smell of the ocean. I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and start walking toward the motel lot where my bike’s parked.

But my boots don’t turn toward the motel. They turn toward home.

Toward her.

Ronnie’s words echo in my head. Stop hiding and go thank her. It sounds simple, but it’s not. Thanking her means seeing her. Seeing her means facing the hurt in her eyes when I told her about Aaron.

Still, my feet keep moving. Past the corner store. Past the weathered cottages. Past the spot on the boardwalk where I kissed her like I’d been starving for a decade.

By the time I hit our street, my pulse is hammering. I can see her house now, the front dark except for the glow of the kitchen window.

And upstairs — a single light. Aaron’s room.

I stop dead in the street. That light’s been off for years.

She’s in there.

I picture her sitting on his bed, maybe holding one of his old baseball caps or flipping through the photo album. I think about all the times she probably came to that room looking for answers and found nothing but dust. And now… she’s doing it again.

And I’m the one holding the answers she hates.

The urge to cross the street and climb those stairs is so strong I can feel it in my teeth. But I don’t.

Instead, I stand there in the shadows, watching that light like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Because if I go in now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to leave again.