Page 23 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Twenty

Keir

It’s been three days since Simone walked away while I tried to apologize for being an asshole. A bastard who thought it was better to tell her to get lost. For those who judge me, I agree. It was an abysmal execution on my part. I fucking know that.

Do I deserve her forgiveness? Is this why I’m trying to apologize? I don’t fucking know what I want from her, but it’s more than what she’s giving me right now.

What the fuck do I want?

Not sure, but all I can count is the time since that night.

It’s been three fucking days since she left me on that couch, staring at two mugs of bitter tea neither of us had the heart to finish.

Three days since the silence in the room felt so dense it pressed in on my skin, so loud I thought it might swallow the entire house.

A little more than seventy-two hours since her eyes had sparked—just for a second—the way they used to, when her heart was still mine, right before she shut the door on whatever scrap of hope I hadn’t realized I was clutching.

And I haven’t been alone with her since.

She comes in like a storm behind glass—she’s definitely visible, but also untouchable.

Simone is always with someone in tow. A nurse, an agent . . . This evening it was a speech therapist I didn’t ask for. One who confirms I didn’t need it because I can talk well. That hit in the head only took my memories temporarily and luckily didn’t take anything else from me.

When I see her, she rattles off vitals and stats like I’m a new patient.

Not even her only patient. It’s so fucking bizarre.

Her gaze stays glued to the tablet in her hand.

If I speak, she pivots. If I reach, she fades.

She’s mastered the art of making herself absent while standing right in front of me.

But I feel her, even when she doesn’t want me to. I fucking feel her in every cell of my body and in my soul. It’s as if something is humming just beneath the surface. Like the hum before a wire snaps. Like she’s still here, even when she’s gone.

And the worst part? I’m improving.

It’s been seven weeks since I woke up. My body’s doing what it’s supposed to.

The bruises are nearly gone, leaving only faint yellow patches that cling to the deeper ones.

Those assholes beat me up bloody. They’re lucky I was tied up, or I would have beaten the shit out of them.

My leg holds me up. I manage the porch stairs without help—or the fucking crutches.

Yes, I’m stubborn, but if I can help it, I won’t be using them, like, ever.

I’ve started light resistance band work—doctor-approved. In the mornings, I sit out there and watch the mist lift off the lake, like it’s exhaling something it held onto too long.

Sometimes, I wish they would let me work.

I could do my thing from anywhere in the world if they just handed me a computer.

Everyone thinks I disappeared, according to the agent who came yesterday to check on me.

Carson, Castle . . . Cass—fuck, I didn’t pay attention to his name.

I should have since he seemed important or too interested in me.

He asked questions about my abduction and my interactions with the buyers.

I told him where he could find everything.

However, he informed me that all my belongings were stolen from my apartment.

Since I’m unsure if I can trust him, I didn’t tell him that there’s a copy of everything in my office.

There’s a safe that’s hiding on the floor.

If and only if Malerick comes to see me, I’ll give him that information.

Other than Sims, he’s the only person I trust.

The therapists ask about memory. Funny how they always hope it’s spotty. I wish it were. Instead, it’s pristine—crystal-clear. The therapists ask about memory. Unfortunately, it’s fucking perfect.

So perfect I can remember every single fucked up thing I’ve done since . . . probably since I could walk. Like beating the shit out of the people who bothered my brothers—or Simone. Because if anyone hurt her, I went fucking rabid on them.

Ironically, I defended her, and I was the one who probably hurt her just as much as her family did.

After almost twenty years, I know that a bit of communication would have at least given her the closure she got with her mom.

She would have still hated me, but then, maybe she would have understood my position.

I said it then and I will repeat it every night when I miss her until the end of time: She deserved better than me. Correction: she deserves a lot better than someone like me.

I’m not safe. I never have been. I infect everything I touch.

I convinced myself I was doing her a favor by staying away. Letting her go. I told myself she’d be freer without me dragging behind her like a chain she didn’t ask for. But the truth is, she continued to believe in people—broken people, lost people—when life had given her every reason not to.

And maybe that’s what undoes me now.

She looked at me and loved me anyway. Not blindly. Not without frustration. But wholly. Like I was someone worth fighting for. Someone she could hold in the dark without recoiling. Someone who could be more.

I wasn’t. I’m still not sure I am. Probably never will be. But now . . .

Now, I’d trade every scar on my body, every broken piece of me, just to see her look at me like she used to.

One more second of that expression that made me feel like I belonged to something good.

One more glance where her eyes softened like I hadn’t ruined everything.

One more breath where she allows me to believe—for the briefest, most beautiful lie—that I could be enough for her.

And for what?

Why the hell do I need that?

I don’t need anyone’s permission to exist. I’ve survived this long with grit and silence. Love doesn’t keep people alive—if it did, I wouldn’t be the last man standing. I learned to live on my terms. Alone has always been easier.

Still . . . I can’t sit in this damn house for another minute.

I push through the screen door and let it slap shut behind me. The clap of it cracks through the still morning like it’s announcing something, though there’s no one around to hear it.

The air outside is thick, sun-warmed, and lazy, clinging to my skin like sap.

Somewhere in the trees, insects are droning.

The lake down below shimmers like spilled glass, and pale light stretches across its surface.

You can smell the pine in the heat—earthy, green, alive.

A summer breeze stirs just enough to brush against my neck and remind me I’m still here.

I follow the stone path that curves past the house, taking careful steps.

Last time I did this, it was under orders.

Two days ago, when the therapist said I needed to build stamina, her voice had that clinical lilt to it—measured, distant, like she wasn’t talking to a person, just reading off a checklist.

Today, I’m doing it because I don’t know what else to do with myself.

The stones are uneven, and my muscles still ache when I shift incorrectly, but I welcome it. Every stretch and pull are proof that I’m not trapped in that bed anymore. That I can still move. Still choose. Even if everything that ever mattered has already walked away.

I tell myself I’m walking for strength. For discipline. For the part of me that wants to recover and not rely on anyone because that’s not who I am. The only person I can trust to get shit done, including keeping me alive, is myself.

But really, I think I’m looking for her.

Maybe it’s something as simple as finding a trace of her on the path she used to take.

At least, that’s what I imagine she’s done while living here.

She’d sometimes go down toward the lake around midnight with a blanket and read a book.

Is it stupid that I still believe we meet at midnight, even while apart?

Probably. I’m delusional, though no one should blame me. Delusion is what kept me alive while I was trying to figure out a way to make a name for myself.

Maybe today, I’m just trying to remember what it felt like to be loved.

The water’s quiet. Still. But it doesn’t give me peace.

It reminds me too much of her.

Of all the nights we spent by lakes like this one. Birchwood Springs is practically made of water and regret. Somehow, the regret feels like mine alone.

I sit on the edge of the dock, brace my hands behind me, and breathe.

That night—three days ago—I haven’t stopped thinking about it. The sound of her voice when she said, “I can’t afford to remember any of it.” The way she bolted. Probably afraid of what she might say next or what I would do.

I keep turning it over. If I replay it enough, I might unlock something that changes everything. But the only thing it does is remind me how badly I fucked up.

Because I did fucking love her.

I still do.

And I didn’t say it then—not when it would’ve mattered—and now it’s definitely too late.

I thought pushing her away was noble. I thought I was protecting her.

I didn’t realize I was just repeating my father’s cycle in a softer tone.

I became him in disguise. Using silence and distance to create space where love should’ve lived.

That’s a mistake I made several times, beginning with her, then with my mother, and now with my brothers.

And now she’s right to hate me. But I’m not sure she does, really. Or maybe there’s that delusion again hitting me in a way that shouldn’t. If she hated me, she wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have kept me breathing. Wouldn’t have sat by my side when I was a name without a face.

No—this isn’t hate.

This is worse.

This is grief.

Grief for the life we didn’t get to live. For the words we never said. For the future, I stole because I was too scared to stay.