Page 24

REMI

Tossing aside the book, I growl under my breath. Just consuming the words of romance and seeing it play out in my head makes me rage.

Nothing like that ever happens in real life.

Men only care about themselves.

I pick the book back up and turn to the page I was on. I draw my knees up, the worn comforter bunching beneath me as I glare at the last few pages. My grip on the book tightens, knuckles whitening, the story’s saccharine ending buzzing in my head like a persistent mosquito.

Each sentence I read only sharpens the prickling heat crawling beneath my skin, irritation simmering, then boiling over as the hero’s grand gesture falls flat—a hollow promise, nothing more.

I toss the book aside with a huff, letting it thump against the mattress, and run a hand through my hair, the strands catching between my agitated fingers.

The room feels smaller, the walls closing in with every breath, as though the fiction on the page has leached all the sense from the world outside it. I press my lips together, jaw tight, refusing to give in to the petty ache of disappointment, but the sting is there all the same.

Love stories never go like this in real life. I sink deeper into the bed, fuming, the closing words echoing in my mind, and wonder why I ever bothered hoping for something different.

Usually, I devour any romance, oohing, and aahing over the words the main male character speaks to the main female character. Yet, I can’t bring myself to do that with this book. The betrayal was too big for the grovel to be worth it.

Right now, any betrayal feels like it’s too much for any redemption.

No matter how slight the betrayal, I find it hard to relate to the drive of the main male character.

Nothing should stand in the way if you love someone or want to try and be with them.

However, that could be my own situation coloring my vision.

It’s a cruel rhythm—one I know too well.

The pattern is almost laughable if it didn’t sting so acutely each time: for a moment, there’s a spark, a word, a gesture that feels like a promise.

I let myself believe—just a little, just enough—that something real is possible, that this time, things will be different.

But hope, it seems, is a fickle guest. No sooner do I let myself revel in possibility than the ground shifts beneath me. I am left to gather the shards of my expectations, each one nicking my skin as I try to make sense of it all.

It’s like reading a love story whose ending always changes at the last moment—where the grand gesture never comes, and instead, I am left with the weight of words that mean nothing, empty air where the connection was supposed to be.

They get my hopes up, coaxing my heart into the open, only to dash it against the sharp rocks of disappointment.

Over and over, the cycle repeats: anticipation blooming, only to be cut short by the same old letdown.

In the silence that follows, I find myself questioning if I am the fool for believing or if hope itself is the culprit—an untrustworthy companion that sets me up for a fall.

Still, I can’t help wanting. The ache remains, raw and insistent, even as I tell myself to stop reaching, to let the fairytales go.

But deep down, beneath all the cynicism and careful armor, a quiet part of me still yearns for someone who won’t just lift me up, but hold me there, refusing to let the world—or their own doubts—bring me crashing down again.

Even now, I still feel the roughness of Tripp’s kiss.

The memory of our kiss lingers—bright and unyielding—no matter how hard I try to shove it aside.

I can still feel the heat of his mouth against mine, the way his hand cradled my head with a tenderness I didn’t dare expect.

For a moment, time shrank down to the hush between heartbeats, the brush of lips, the rush of breathless wanting that left my senses spinning.

Tripp’s kiss was raw and real, nothing like the empty promises I’d read on the page—it was unguarded, almost desperate, as if he needed the connection just as much as I did.

Even now, the ghost of it haunts me: the taste of him, the warmth of his skin, the shiver that ran down my spine when his resolve wavered, and he let me see the hunger in his eyes.

That kiss—brief as it was—carved itself deep, refusing to fade, and no matter how much I try to deny it, my lips still remember the shape of his longing.

It frustrates me because I know nothing will come of it. That kiss gave me a hint at something I will never be able to claim. No matter how much I want it with everything inside of me, I know I won’t be able to have it.

Tripp swore he didn’t know about the message I received, but how can that be true?

He’s part of a pack, and a pack values honesty and transparency above all else, especially one as close as theirs.

If I were a betting woman, I’d say they all share the same account, and they all have access to its contents.

So, Tripp knew. He had to have known about the message.

Why would he lie, though? What is there to gain?

I sigh and shift my weight on the mattress, pulling my knees tighter to my chest as the lamp on the nightstand casts a muted glow across the rumpled sheets.

The book lies abandoned beside me, its pages splayed open like a wound I’m not ready to close.

For a moment, I let the hush of the room settle over me, the air thick with the scent of paper and the lingering ache of want I can’t shake off.

I’m just about to bury my face in the pillow and surrender to the heaviness pressing down on my chest when a sound slices through the quiet—a soft, tentative knock at the door.

My breath catches, tension curling in my stomach, and I freeze, listening as the knock comes again, a little firmer this time.

The world narrows to that small, persistent sound, rippling through the stillness of the night, and I find myself poised on the edge of something I can’t yet name.

Slowly, I uncurl from the warmth of my bed, limbs heavy and reluctant, the comforter dragging behind as if urging me to stay cocooned in its embrace.

My bare feet find the floor, cool against my skin, grounding me in the hush of the moment.

Each movement feels deliberate as if I’m wading through a fog of uncertainty—body and heart both unsure of what waits beyond the threshold.

I press a hand to my chest, steadying the wild thrum of nerves as I move away from the haven of tangled sheets, step by cautious step.

The soft lamplight dwindles behind me, shadows stretching long and uncertain across the hallway as I cross it, drawn by the unanswered summons.

The world narrows to the sound of my shallow breaths and the muted echo of the knock that still hangs in the air, guiding me forward, hesitant but compelled, toward whatever—or whoever—awaits on the other side of the door.

My heart thumps hard in my chest as I flick on the lamp in the living room. I peer up at the clock, noting it’s nearing midnight. The only time I can remember anyone visiting me this late is when it was Windy. She had just broken up with her then-boyfriend and was absolutely devastated.

I pad quietly across the living room, each step measured and deliberate, the muted hush of midnight pressing against the walls.

The knock has stopped, but the memory of it lingers, urging me forward.

My pulse thrums, equal parts dread and hope, as I reach the foyer.

The living room narrows around me, shadows thickening, the familiar world of my home suddenly alive with possibility.

I pause at the door, breath caught in my throat. My hand hovers over the lock, but caution wins out; instead, I edge toward the side window, careful not to disturb the blinds too much. I peer through the narrow slit between the slats, my heart hammering against my ribs.

There, haloed in the thin spill of the porch light, stands Tripp.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, shoulders hunched, hands buried deep in his pockets as if they might anchor him against the uncertainty of this moment.

He looks so unlike the self-assured version of himself I try to conjure in memory—his jaw tense, eyes darting toward the door before dropping to the welcome mat, the awkwardness practically radiating off him in waves.

For a fleeting heartbeat, I watch him, the world outside tinted silver and strange. He’s here. He came. And suddenly, everything feels impossibly fragile—my longing, my confusion, the question burning between us, waiting just beyond the glass.

How does he even know where I live?

Why is he even here?

Hesitantly, I unlock the door and flip the chain. I open the door just a crack, my eyes landing on Tripp’s. So much can be seen in his eyes that it momentarily takes me off guard. He looks uncomfortable like he wants to be anywhere else other than here right now.

“Can I help you?” I ask, curiosity winning out in the end.

“I came to talk,” he replies, shifting once more. “I want to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

For an instant, my mind whirs with possibilities—a rapid, involuntary flickering through every recent misstep, each conversation replayed in reverse: the argument at the café, the messages.

Did I miss something other than last night?

Was it something I said or didn’t say? The word “apologize” echoes between us, swelling with meaning, twisting itself into knots of hope and unease.

I search his face for clues, but he keeps his gaze carefully averted as if afraid the truth might spill out too soon.

Unease prickles at the back of my neck. My curiosity sharpens, suddenly desperate to know what has driven him through the dark to my front door.

“Last night,” he says. “Can I come in?”

I hold the doorknob tighter. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

His eyes rise to meet mine, swirling with regret and maybe a little bit of guilt. “Please.”

An argument erupts inside me, silent but fierce—a battle between the urge to protect myself and the temptation to hear him out.

One side, fierce and rational, urges caution: Remember the ache of old wounds, the sting of disappointment, the promises I made to never let anyone make me feel less than ever again.

Stand firm. Keep the door as a barrier, a thin line between safety and the chaos he might bring.

But the other voice is softer, insistent, tugging at the edges of my resolve.

What if he’s sincere? What if this is the moment everything changes—the moment I stop pushing away what could heal me?

My heart thuds, heavy with possibility, and I catch myself picturing what he might say if I stepped aside, if I allowed this apology to bloom in the fragile quiet of my living room.

My hand hovers at the door, knuckles tight, heartbeat fluttering with indecision.

One breath, then another. I weigh the risk against the hope, fear against longing.

Right now, every reason to turn him away stands shoulder to shoulder with every secret wish to let him in, and I can’t yet decide which side will win.