Page 41 of For the Plot

Because when I let myself feel, really feel, I lose everything. That’s what happened with Lauren. I let my guard down. Gave her all of me. And then she was gone. We thought we had it all, the happy family and beautiful home, but cancer had other plans. It tore us apart and ravaged her body, leaving us both broken. The only difference, Lauren got to leave her broken body behind but Archer and I… we had to live in ours, without her.

And after that, all I had was Archer. My only tether to her. My reason to keep moving, even when I didn’t want to. But I failed him, too. Not in the big dramatic ways, maybe, but in all the little ones. In all the ways that mattered.

I missed basketball games. Work consumed me. I didn’t know how to talk to a teenage boy who was grieving his mother and furious at the world. I gave him money. Structure. Silence.

Not love. Not the kind he needed anyway.

And now? Now he’s a man. And I’m standing here on the verge of ruining the last good thing between us because I can’t stop thinking about her.

His ex.

The girl who sat in my kitchen during Thanksgiving break all those years ago wearing Archer’s hoodie and pink fuzzy socks, laughing at some dumb joke about cranberry sauce. She used to look at him like he hung the stars.

Now she looks at me like I might burn the whole sky down. And I’m about two seconds from letting her hand me the matches.

I slam the bourbon glass down on the counter—hard enough to crack but not shatter. My breath is uneven. Shallow. I need to shut it down. Rein it in. I’ve done it before.

I head down the hall to the gym, the only part of this place that ever feels like mine. I strip off my dress shirt, leave it crumpled on the bench, and wrap my hands with the old boxing tape I’ve had for years. It’s worn, frayed, and starting to tear at the edges. Like me.

The first punch lands heavy. The second louder. The third sends pain ricocheting up my wrist—but I don’t stop. I just hit harder. Again. And again.

I think of her laugh. Her mouth. Her stubborn streak. Her fucking legs.

I think of Archer. Of Lauren. Of the way Skye’s eyes shimmered this morning in the kitchen when she whispered, “I can be professional.”

God, I wish she couldn’t.

I slam my fist into the bag with everything I have left, body slick with sweat, chest heaving like I’ve been drowning for years and only now remembered how to breathe. I drop my arms and rest my forehead against the leather.

It smells like anger. Like grief I never dealt with. Yet I don’t cry. I haven’t in years. But my throat is tight, my pulse ragged. And the worst part is, I’m not even sure what I’m mourning right now.

Her?

Or the version of myself I used to be before she walked back into my life?

I peel off the tape, leave it on the floor, and walk toward the bathroom. The shower scalds my skin, but I don’t turn down the temperature. I let it sting. Let it ground me.

I tell myself over and over again, no more daydreams, no more lingering stares. No more pretending that this is something I can handle. Because it isn’t.

I roughly dry off, shove on a pair of black sweatpants, and walk back out into the dark apartment. No TV. No music. Just the hum of the fridge.

My phone is sitting on the bar. I stare at it like it might bite. Eventually I pick it up and open our text thread.

Me:You left your charger in the conference room. I have it.

I stare at the words, then delete them.

Me:Why do you keep testing me?

I delete that too.

My fingers hover over the screen for a long time before I finally lock it and set it face down. I’m not going to text her. I’m not going to jerk off again thinking about her. And I’m not going to let her destroy me.

But when I walk to the bedroom, every fiber of my body is still aching for her. And I know… I know it’s only getting worse.

Chapter 9

Skye