Page 45 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Forty

Simone

Walking away is easy.

It’s the staying that wrecks me.

I head straight to the mudroom for my sandals and purse before marching toward my car. My eyes are blurry with everything I won’t let fall. My chest feels tight—not from panic, just from trying to hold it together for five seconds longer than I actually can.

If I stay in that house one more second, I’ll combust. My fingers move on autopilot—first text goes to the girls:

Need wine, ice cream, maybe baby snuggles. Level: Keir.

The next one is for Finnegan. Short. Direct. Not even pretending to be civil:

I’m going to town. Fuck you and your stupid rules.

Okay, not sweet. But I can’t be in that house with Keir and if Finnegan tries to stop me, I swear I’ll quit.

I have enough savings to pay for part of my debt.

Not that there is an actual number posted somewhere.

Nope I can’t even say, hey I just paid this much can I be done?

I could pull the receipts if they gave a shit. They don’t.

I can’t stay in that house. Not with the walls closing in. Not when every corner is too loud with echoes of the past. Not when the silence is still vibrating from all the things we finally said.

He’s in there.

Keir Timberbridge. Infuriating. Broken. Beautiful in a way that feels unfair. He still believes that no one can love a man like him. I did so fucking much.

And the worst part is that he’s still mine in ways he has no right to be.

I turn on the engine, and that’s when it happens.

The unraveling. The tears fall and not the graceful kind. Not the cinematic ones that trail down your cheek like you’re in a sad indie film. These are hot and humiliating. Messy breathing, throat too tight, vision swimming.

A breath doesn’t land right. Then my hands start shaking. My vision blurs before I’m even out of the damn driveway. I try to blink it away, to focus on the road. But I can’t see. I can’t breathe.

I barely make it down the gravel road before I have to pull over because I can’t fucking see.

My hands grip the steering wheel like I’m bracing for impact, but the crash already happened—twenty years ago when he left and took everything soft with him.

The aftershocks just never stopped. I spent years learning how to breathe without him.

And now he’s back, unraveling every survival mechanism I’ve ever built like they were made of paper and sugar. Dissolving with water and his presence.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel. Let out a sob that doesn’t sound human.

Because I loved him. And in some weird way, I still do. It’s infuriating.

Because he almost killed his father and never told me.

Because he keeps looking at me like I’m still the only place that felt like home—and part of me wants to be that for him again.

And that makes me hate myself a little. The girl he left deserved better than what he did to her.

I scream. Loud. Ugly. Into the empty car, into the open road, into all the years he wasn’t there.

He says he left because he loved me. That he wanted to protect me. But love doesn’t disappear. Love doesn’t vanish in the middle of the night and forget to call for twenty fucking years.

Love fights. Love stays.

And now I don’t know what to do with this version of him. This man who’s survived things I’ll never understand, who’s hurting in places I can’t reach, and still—still—makes my heart trip just by breathing near me.

I slam the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Hard enough to stop myself from crying for a minute longer.

Then I throw the car into drive and force myself back onto the road. I have girls, ice cream, and maybe a baby who won’t judge me for crying while holding her. I need to hold something soft and sweet that won’t remind me of every failure I’ve ever made.

Because of course the universe fucks with me. Especially on days ending in y. My phone starts ringing.

The dashboard illuminates Finnegan’s name.

Of fucking course.

I think about ignoring him. Just letting it ring and ring until it cuts out.

“Leave a voicemail, asshole.”

But I know better. He’ll keep calling. He always does. He’s the human version of a door you can’t lock, no matter how hard you slam shut.

I jab the answer button with more force than necessary. “Yeah?”

“What the fuck does that mean, Simone?” His voice comes in hot. Clipped. Furious. “‘I’m going to town. Fuck you’—are you having a stroke or just trying to get yourself reassigned to Siberia? Either way, I need you to stay where you’re at. I don’t care.”

“I can’t stay there. Not right now.” I wipe my cheek with the sleeve of my sweater and pretending I’m fine.

“You’re crying.” A pause. Then more frustration spills through the line. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

There’s a bunch of noise on his end—doors slamming, muffled voices, something that sounds like wind. He’s probably pacing.

“You can’t quit on me. You’re the only person I trust with him,” he says, lower now but still intense. “I understand this is hard, but . . . you can’t.”

“I’m not quitting. I just need a few minutes.” My voice cracks, and I hate that he hears it. “I need to be away from that house. Away from him. I’m heading to see my friends.”

“You can’t go to town. People will start asking why you’re not at the clinic. You think the town gossips sleep because it’s Sunday?”

“Maybe I should go back to work,” I snap, more to myself than to him. “He doesn’t need me. There’s a whole damn team working with him every day. He’s not alone.”

I take a breath, trying to make my argument sound rational instead of desperate. “You’re the one who said he needs to stay isolated. So isolate him. Not me.”

There’s a pause. Not silence, just that long Finnegan silence where you know he’s calculating something behind his eyes, probably already texting five people to manage whatever storm he thinks I’m about to create.

Finally, he grumbles, “Fine. But you make damn sure he doesn’t leave that house. If he steps outside with one of his brothers and vanishes, I’ll hold you responsible.”

“So that’s it? You’re promoting me to jail warden?”

“Do we have an understanding, Simone?”

I swallow down the scream building in my throat. “After this assignment, I’m done with you.”

He scoffs like I just threatened to quit a book club. “Let’s not be dramatic. You’re one of my best doctors.”

“I’m serious.”

“We’ll talk when this is over.”

Translation: You’re not going anywhere.

But I don’t argue. I hang up.

Because today, I need a glass of wine, a pint of peanut butter ice cream, and a baby who won’t ask why I look like I’m breaking apart.