Page 29

TWENTY-NINE

MJ

The house was quiet when I walked in, the soft creak of the doorframe breaking the stillness. The air inside was warmer than the crisp autumn night, carrying the faint scents of cinnamon and the lemon oil Aunt Bug used to polish every piece of wood in the place.

I dropped the stolen blanket onto the couch, smoothing it down like I could erase the evidence of what I’d just done. The fleece was warm, the faintest hint of woodsmoke clinging to it, but it wasn’t the blanket that made me hesitate.

It was him .

My pulse thrummed, uneven, as I stood there in the living room, staring at the empty space. He wasn’t here, but he might as well have been.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror as I turned toward the stairs, and my breath stuttered. My hair was a hot mess—tangled from his fingers. My sweater hung crooked, stretched from the way he’d pulled me close. My lips looked swollen, still tingling from the press of his kisses.

I looked utterly undone.

Like someone who’d just let her guard slip. Like someone who couldn’t lie to herself anymore about what this was becoming.

“Late night?”

The voice startled me, and I whirled around to see Aunt Bug standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a steaming mug and her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back at the temples. She was wearing her usual oversize sweatshirt and slippers, her assessing eyes narrowing slightly as she took me in.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What could I even say?

Bug’s lips curved into a knowing smile, the kind that always made me feel like she could see right through me. “You look like you’ve been through a windstorm.” She took a sip of tea. “Or maybe something better.”

My cheeks burned, and I tugged at the hem of my sweater, trying to smooth it out. “It’s nothing.”

Bug snorted, moving into the kitchen and flicking on the light. “Honey, you’re standing in the hallway looking like a cat that got caught in the cream. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

I followed her reluctantly, leaning against the counter as she drizzled a bit of honey into the mug.

I gently cleared my throat. “I was out with Logan.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, intense and curious, but she only hummed.

I nodded, suddenly feeling like a teenager again, sneaking in past curfew.

Bug took a sip of her sweetened tea, studying me over the rim of the mug. “You like him.”

The words were soft but sure, and I felt something twist in my chest.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant.

Bug set her mug down and leaned on the counter, her gaze steady and warm. “MJ, liking someone isn’t the same as trusting them. And trusting them isn’t the same as letting yourself be happy.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how much her words hit home.

“I understand you’ve been carrying that fear around for so long, it’s like you don’t know how to put it down,” Bug continued, her voice gentle. “Trust me. I understand that. But recently I have also learned that there comes a point when you’ve got to ask yourself if holding on to the hurt is worth missing out on something good.”

My thoughts drifted to her relationship with Bax. He’d opened something up for her, allowed her to be herself in a way that was truly special. She didn’t have to change for him ... all he ever asked was for a little of her time.

My throat felt tight, and I dropped my gaze to the counter, tracing the veins in the marble with my finger. “What if it’s not good? What if it’s just ... temporary?”

Bug shrugged, her expression softening. “Maybe it is. Maybe it’s not. But if you spend all your time waiting for the floor to fall out from under you, you’ll miss the chance to enjoy standing still. You can trust me on that one.”

The room felt quiet again, the weight of her words settling into the space between us. Bug had never married. She’d spent her life raising her brother’s children so we wouldn’t have to suffer under the weight of his full attention. I paused, wondering whether her advice was speaking from a place of experience. For the first time, I wondered whether Bug had lived a life of regrets.

I swallowed hard, finally glancing up at her. “Thanks, Bug.”

She reached out and squeezed my hand, her strong fingers warm against mine. “Go on upstairs, MJ. You look like you need to sit with yourself for a while.”

I nodded, murmuring another thanks before heading for the stairs, grabbing the blanket from the couch on the way.

The old wood steps creaked under my feet, and I moved slowly, my mind still spinning. Bug’s words echoed in my head as I reached my room, the familiar space feeling too quiet, too still.

I dropped onto my bed, pulling the stolen blanket around my shoulders again, inhaling the faint trace of woodsmoke and Logan that clung to it. My phone buzzed, and my heart kicked up, hoping for his name.

It wasn’t Logan.

It was Trent.

I stared at my phone, the screen glaring back at me in the dim light of my room.

Trent

MJ, I’m sorry. I messed up, okay? I’ve been thinking about us a lot. I’m not the same guy anymore. You deserve better, and I want to be that for you. Can we just talk?

The words landed like a punch, harsh and deliberate.

I knew what Trent was doing—this wasn’t an apology. It was bait, a carefully crafted mix of guilt and hope, designed to make me second-guess everything I’d worked to leave behind.

And the worst part?

It almost worked.

Not because I wanted him back— hell , no. But because his words poked at every raw nerve I hadn’t quite managed to numb.

I sank deeper into the bed, my grip tightening around the phone as I read the text again, my chest tightening with a familiar ache.

Trent had always known how to get under my skin. When we were together, his apologies were always just enough to make me believe him—enough to make me doubt myself when things went wrong.

He’d flash that easy smile, the one that made me forget how cold his words had been the night before. He’d say the right things, just enough to patch the cracks, but never enough to fix them.

And I’d let him. Over and over again until he had gotten what he wanted from me and left for good.

Because I thought that was love.

I swallowed hard, the bitter taste of those memories rising in my throat.

This wasn’t love. Not even close.

I shoved the phone onto the nightstand, the screen dimming as I turned away. But the words lingered, curling into the corners of my mind, feeding the insecurities I hated most.

You deserve better, and I want to be that for you.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn’t help. Trent’s voice in my head mixed with my own doubts—nagging, insidious whispers that sounded too much like truth.

What if you’re not good enough for better ? I had spent my entire life being good, and it wasn’t enough for my own father to love me.

What if Logan figures that out too?

His face flashed in my mind, the way he’d looked at me tonight—like I was more than the sum of my mistakes and fears. Like he could love me for exactly who I was.

It should’ve been comforting. Instead, it made the prickle of anxiety worse.

Guys like Logan didn’t stick around towns like this. They didn’t settle for girls like me.

He was an Olympic athlete, for fuck’s sake. A star. Someone with a world far bigger than mine.

And me?

I was just MJ. Small-town MJ with a family full of baggage and a track record for playing it safe.

My phone buzzed again, and my heart twisted, half expecting another message from Trent before I had the chance to block his number.

But, thankfully, it wasn’t.

This time, it was Logan and I let a grin take over my face.

Logan

Made it home. Can’t stop thinking about you. Sleep well, Julep.

My breath slipped out in a rush.

Logan.

His words weren’t elaborate or carefully crafted. They weren’t meant to manipulate or guilt me. They were simple, honest, real.

I stared at the message, the lump in my throat easing just a little.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard, the weight of the day pressing down on me as I tried to figure out what to say.

Tonight was perfect. Good night.

It was short, but it felt like more than enough.

I set the phone down, curling into my blanket as memories of Logan wrapped around me.

For the first time that night, I felt myself start to settle, the ache in my chest softening into something quieter.

But sleep didn’t come easy.

I stared at the ceiling, the faint glow of the moonlight outside spilling through the curtains. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning, replaying Trent’s text, Logan’s voice, Bug’s words.

Her advice had sounded simple enough— Don’t let fear keep you from something good.

But what if I wasn’t the one keeping it away? What if Logan was just passing through, like everyone else?

What if I wasn’t good enough for him to stay?

The last thing I remembered before sleep finally claimed me was the sound of Logan’s voice in my head, warm and steady.

And the thought I couldn’t shake: I had to figure out how to trust that a man like Logan wouldn’t leave.

* * *

Bluebird Books always smelled the same—like paper, pine, and the faintest hint of espresso from the coffee maker tucked into the corner. It was comforting in a way I hadn’t expected tonight.

The room was buzzing with laughter and chatter, women perched on mismatched chairs and leaning against shelves crammed with paperbacks. Someone had brought a charcuterie board that was already half empty, and there were at least four open bottles of wine scattered across the tables.

This wasn’t just a book club. It was a ritual—a midweek reset where we could talk about anything and everything, with only the occasional mention of the actual book we were supposed to be discussing.

I’d barely made it through the door when Annie spotted me. Her eyes lit up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Well, well,” she drawled, crossing her arms and tilting her head. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence—and looking all glowy too.”

My cheeks burned instantly. “I’m not glowing.”

“You don’t just walk into book club looking like that without some juicy details, MJ,” another voice chimed in. Emily was already swirling her glass of wine like she was interrogating me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered, heading straight for the wine.

Annie wasn’t having it. She grabbed my arm, steering me toward a circle of chairs near the back. “Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Come on, spill it. What’s going on with you and Logan?”

The sound of his name sent a jolt through me, and I fumbled with the corkscrew. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Liar.” Emily leaned in, her grin widening. “That smile says otherwise.”

I fixed my face. “I’m not smiling.”

“You’re totally smiling,” Annie countered. “And blushing. God, you’re the worst at hiding things. So what’s he like? Are the abs as good as they look in the photos?”

Better up close, actually.

I groaned, pouring myself a glass of wine and sinking into a chair. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”

“Fine,” Annie said, sitting with a dramatic sigh. “But just know we’re coming back to this.”

The conversation shifted to more general gossip—who had pranked whom, the latest drama at the historical society—but the teasing glances didn’t stop entirely. As the conversation around me turned from books to town gossip, I found myself zoning out, their voices fading into the background.

Logan had been gone for a few days now, the team gearing up for some big away game. He’d mentioned it before he dropped me off the other night, something about extra practices and being “all in” for the season.

I had nodded, pretending to understand, but the truth was, I hated the way my chest felt hollow without him here.

The thought made me snort quietly into my wine.

What was wrong with me?

He’d been gone for only a few days, and here I was, acting like I didn’t know how to function without him. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he’d left—casual, easy, like maybe it didn’t weigh on him the same way it weighed on me.

And why would it? Logan had a life so much bigger than this tiny town. He had rugby, a career, a future. Guys like Logan didn’t stick around.

I knew that. I’d always known that.

And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me—like I was more than just a woman with fucked up family baggage and a shitty ex-boyfriend.

It terrified me, the way Logan made me feel like I could be myself.

Like that was more than enough.

But then there was Trent’s text sitting unanswered in my pocket like a stone I couldn’t wait to throw away. It wasn’t until later, when the group had splintered into smaller clusters, that I found myself sitting with a few of the women I trusted most.

“Okay,” I said quietly, setting my glass down and glancing around. “I do have something I need to get off my chest.”

Emily perked up immediately. “Finally.”

“It’s not about Logan,” I added quickly.

Her face fell. “Boo.”

“It’s about Trent.”

That sobered them up instantly. Annie set her wine down, leaning in closer. “What happened?”

I hesitated. “He texted me the other night. Said he wanted to talk. That he’s sorry and he’s changed.”

The table erupted in groans and expletives.

“Oh, please,” Emily said, rolling her eyes. “That man couldn’t change if his life depended on it.”

“Did you respond?” Annie asked.

“Hell no.”

She pointed a finger at me. “Good. Don’t.”

Emily smirked. “You should send him a list of ex-boyfriend etiquette tips. Rule one: Don’t text your ex at one a.m. unless you want a restraining order.”

That got a laugh out of me, one I desperately needed.

I’d spent too long letting Trent’s words shape me, letting the doubt he planted take root. But with Logan it was different. I didn’t need to be a better version of myself. Whatever I already was seemed to be enough.

I felt like two versions of myself were at war.

One was stuck in the past, chained to all the ways I’d been made to feel small and not enough.

The other? The other felt free. Brave, even.

And that unknown version terrified me.

The bookstore was quiet by the time I left, most of the women lingering inside to finish the last of the wine. I wrapped my coat tighter around me, the crisp night air biting at my cheeks as I made my way to my car.

When I pulled into my driveway, I spotted him immediately.

Trent was sitting on the porch steps, his head down, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.

My stomach twisted, freezing me in place.

He looked up when he heard my car door shut, his expression carefully crafted—apologetic, wounded.

Calculated.

“MJ,” he said, standing slowly, his voice soft and full of practiced regret. “Please. I just want to talk. Can we do that?”

I didn’t move, my heart pounding.

The confidence I’d felt earlier, laughing with the Bluebirds, was on shaky footing.

Trent took a small step forward, his hands raised in mock surrender. “I mean it. No games. No lies. Just ... let me explain.”

I swallowed hard, my feet rooted to the ground as his words curled around me, suffocating. I stared at him as the porch light cast shadows across Trent’s face, and the weight of his presence pressed down on me like a storm cloud.

The air seemed to thicken as I stepped closer, my hands tightening around my car keys. The porch light buzzed faintly, casting his shadow long and angular across the wooden steps.

“MJ,” Trent said again, his voice low and honeyed, the kind of tone he used when he wanted to win me over.

My stomach twisted, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“What are you doing here, Trent?” My voice came out steadier than I felt, each word a deliberate push against the panic clawing at my chest.