Page 19 of I Do, You Don’t (You Don’t #1)

Lara

I ’m at the desk of my new office, hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee, eyes fixed on the screen as I finish drafting my latest business proposal.

The office is quiet, the good kind, a soft hum of overhead lights and the occasional creak of the old building.

The windows are open just enough to let in a whisper of fresh air.

The space is humble, but it’s mine. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

The front door creaks open. Drew’s voice calls out, “Anyone alive in here?”

I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips. “Barely.”

Drew appears in a gray hoodie that swallows her small frame and a pair of worn sweatpants.

The sleeves are pulled over her hands, her chin tucked low.

She’s the kind of person who wears clothes to disappear.

She’s been volunteering here for weeks, no pay, no complaints just showing up when I need her most. She carries a coffee cup in one hand and a manila envelope in the other before flopping into the chair across from me.

“What’s that?” I nod at the envelope.

“It’s from some random woman,” Drew says, dropping it on the desk. “She said her tax guy recommended you.”

My brow furrows. I take the unmarked envelope, peel it open, and scan the handwritten letter.

Dear Lara,

I hop e this letter finds you well. I just wanted to express my gratitude for the help you’ve been offering people in your community.

I recently spoke with someone who did my taxes and mentioned that I should reach out to you for financial advice.

Thank you so much for offering such an important service to women like me.

I was going through some financial trouble, but now that I’ve met with you, I feel much more confident in the steps I need to take to improve my future.

Best,

Sandra H.

I blink, rereading the words. It’s not random—it’s the third one this week. All from women who’ve somehow found their way to me, all mentioning their connection to a tax guy.

A mix of emotions floods through me: confusion, surprise, discomfort.

I know he did this. He’s an accountant; this is the kind of quiet support he would offer.

I just wish I’d known it was Gideon before I met with her.

Still, a client is a client, and I’m not about to turn her down.

“I have to schedule a follow-up appointment with Ms. Hudson next month anyway.”

I glance at Drew. She leans back, her expression caught between pity and irritation. “He’s still doing this?”

“Doing what?” I ask, more defensive than I intend.

“Gideon’s been sending people your way,” she says, her voice clipped, as if the words taste sour.

I blink. Drew is usually my quiet support, the one who says nothing during the drama but wipes my tears afterward. Her voice, normally a gentle hum, is suddenly sharp, a jarring chord in our quiet office.

She raises an eyebrow, her mouth tightening. “Like he’s doing some noble thing.”

“Why would he keep sending people to me when I won’t even answer his calls?” I murmur.

Drew snor ts. “Because he’s a coward who doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t get to play savior after leaving you at the altar.”

I flinch. The words are sharp, but not wrong.

“He’s probably hoping you’ll think he’s changed,” she continues, arms crossing over her chest. “But I don’t buy it. You don’t get to disappear when things get hard and then come back with referrals, like it erases everything.”

I set the letter down, still processing. I know I still love him, but this is not enough.

“But why would he do that?” I ask.

Drew shrugs, her expression hard. “Guilt. Ego. Who knows? Maybe he thinks if he helps from a distance, it’ll make him look better. But I don’t care what section of the bookstore he’s lurking in, he’s not the hero of this story.”

I latch onto one word. “A bookstore?” The man thinks of reading as a chore. The only time I ever saw him with a book, it was his old college calculus textbook, scribbled full of margin notes he called puzzles. That’s the extent of his literary life.

“Yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I saw him last week. Self-help aisle. Real poetic.”

I laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Guess he’s working on himself.”

“Good,” Drew says, rising to her feet. “He can work on himself far away from you.”

Silence lingers between us. I glance at her, my sister, my anchor, and feel the weight of everything she’s carried with me. She’s been here since day one, helping me build this business.

Finally, I exhale. “Thanks for telling me.”

She gives me a small smile. “Just don’t let him bulldoze his way in. You’re the one building something real here. You’re the one helping these women.”

“I won ’t.” I pause at the door. “I’m going to keep building my business. No matter what.”

She nods. “And I’ll be here. Every step of the way.”

We part ways. I step into the cool, crisp air, my thoughts drifting to Gideon, to everything he’s done, good and bad. He may not have pressured me, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him, but one thing is clear: I can’t let this define me.

I walk home through the quiet, letting the wind tangle my thoughts. I wish making peace with someone were as simple as a letter or a speech. But it isn’t. It’s time. It’s presence.

A week slips by. I let it and focus on the small things: clearing invoices, folding laundry, tending to clients, strengthening my ties with my sister and my brother. I let myself feel the quiet joy of progress, even as the questions linger.

One night, just as I’m about to close my laptop, a new email notification appears. The subject line reads: “Interview Request for The Pigeon Express.” A small local paper, about twenty minutes south of here.

I click it open. It’s from a journalist named Matthew, who wants to feature my new business. His email is polite, professional, and brimming with praise. He’s heard about my work and believes my story is exactly the kind of inspiration his readers need.

My heart pounds as I linger on the final line: “Your story is one of strength and resilience. I’d love to tell it.” Interesting.