Page 47 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Forty-Two

Simone

After I calm down—well, after I stop sobbing, hyperventilating, and cursing Keir’s name under my breath—I check my phone again to see where we’re supposed to meet.

The address Del sent me isn’t hers.

I blink. Zoom in. Zoom out as I try to figure out where she is sending me. Before I can type a confused question mark into our group chat, I realized Nysa beat me to it.

Why are we meeting at Cassian’s place?

Cassian’s place? Yeah. Why the fuck are we?

I glare at the screen like it’s holding out on me. Nothing. Just the damn location pin taunting me with no answers.

They say curiosity killed the cat, but honestly?

Curiosity is the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a puddle of existential dread right now after my conversation with Keir.

So I latch onto it, cling to it’s the only thing keeping me sane, and try to make sense of why Del isn’t at her own house.

Then it hits me. Not like a soft realization—more like a rewind button that drags me back to the night when my life shift.

The Moon & Maple Festival night, right after her cafe exploded, Cassian was with her.

He held her as Malerick was dealing with the emergency personnel but kept checking on them.

I lost track of Del while I was helping the paramedics, and when I looked for her, Mal said, “Cass took her home.”

Only now am I wondering whose home that was, or why the two men were so . . . it wasn’t just concern, but they were behaving the same way the Timberbridge men do when their women are in danger.

By the time I park in front of Cassian’s place—above the bar, of all places—my questions have multiplied like rabbits on espresso.

Why didn’t I realize Cass lived here? When did Del start crashing above the bar?

More importantly—can we drink if it’s still closed?

Because I could really use all the alcohol stored in that building.

I step out of the car with the grace of a baby deer on a frozen pond—wobbly, uncertain, but fueled by sheer will and indignation. The sun’s out, annoyingly bright and unforgiving like it has no interest in giving me a dramatic atmosphere to match the unraveling inside my chest.

The bar’s closed, but the back door is propped open. Inside, it smells like old wood, lemons, and cleaning supplies. I never knew this side of the bar existed. Not that I’ve been here since . . . well, I’ve never been inside, to be honest.

I climb the narrow flight of stairs like I’m heading toward a reckoning.

By the time I reach the landing, my nerves are trying to convince me to turn around and pretend I missed the address.

That I never got the text. That I had errands.

A dentist appointment. An urgent need to rearrange my spice rack.

But I’m here.

And before I can knock, the door swings open, and Gale appears, shoving a glass of margarita into my hand. “You’re late,” she says, like it matters.

The Tajin on the rim touches my lips, and suddenly, I forget what I came here to do.

Cassian’s apartment smells like vanilla, rosemary, and something warm baking in the oven. I wouldn’t be surprised if Del has taken over and converted it into a bakery. Downstairs might no longer be a bar by the end of next week, but a coffee shop.

The windows are open, letting in a soft breeze. From the couch, Blythe hums quietly, her voice blending with the faint clinking in the kitchen. She’s curled up like a cat, Everly sleeping on her chest with a hand twisted into her shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her safe.

And there’s Nysa, chopping up a rainbow of fresh fruit like she’s filming a wholesome cooking reel. No one would be fooled seeing the blender, tequila and other ingredients next to it. She’s obviously preparing flavored margaritas. This is my kind of reunion.

Del’s already padding toward me, barefoot and all soft pink cardigan energy, her arms out like she’s going to wrap me in a hug. I stop her with a look.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she says without skipping a beat, “It was clear when I visited you earlier, but after that call you took it was . . . I curse Mal and your bodyguards for kicking me out of your house.”

I shrug because it took them awhile to realize I had a visitor. Not sure what’s going to happen now that one more person knows about Keir. He’s supposed to be MIA. One person finds out, and in this town, information spreads like wildfire.

“Well, it’s complicated.”

“Please, Keir, being at your house is not complicated,” Blythe mumbles.

I frown. “You knew?”

Nysa shrugs. “Of course, we knew. Our men don’t keep secrets from us. They were pretty concerned when their brother disappeared. They can’t pretend one day they’re worried sick and the next that everything is fine—even when their older brother is still missing.”

Del huffs but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear that she was left in the dark until today. And when she says, “I had no idea he was missing.”

“You’ve had other issues, Del. Why would we worry you about Keir too?” Nysa states.

Gale and Blythe nod in agreement.

I sink into the armchair in the corner. It’s too plush and swallows me whole, which feels metaphorically appropriate for today.

Nysa’s sitting on the floor beside Gale, her socked feet tucked beneath her, a bowl of something chocolate balanced on her lap, and a margarita in hand.

Gale is drinking tea, and she looks radiant. I want to ask how she’s feeling, but it’s best if I don’t bring up her pregnancy now, or I’ll end up heading to the clinic to make sure everything is fine with her.

“So, rough day?” Blythe asks softly, bouncing Everly a little as the baby starts to stir.

I don’t answer right away. Just nod. Once.

Del comes back with a tray of muffins. “Here, this goes great with margaritas.”

“You keep saying that all your pastries go great with anything, even water.” Gale rolls her eyes. “I already told you to come to my house to start baking, and sell online.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“But it’s okay to impose here?” Blythe asks. “Because rumor has it that you’re actually living with Cassian—but then there’s a rumor about Mal doing the bartender.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about Simone losing her shit because her ex is living with her—and almost died.”

“He’s not my ex,” I protest because that’s what I used to say every time someone asked if I was dating him. He was never anything official. Just . . . everything.

If I ever mentioned it to him, he would say, That’s stupid, Sims. Everyone should know we’re friends. I just kiss you because you get pissed if I kiss anyone else. And yes, that was his weird way to . . . to what? Fuck, Keir Timberbridge has been emotionally stunted since we were young.

“You two were together,” Nysa insists.

“Let’s not focus on the past—just tell us what happened,” Del says calmly. “We’re here for you.”

I don’t know where to start, but since Gale and Blythe don’t know much about Keir or my history with him, I give them the entire story. From the moment he defended me until a few . . . was it hours, minutes? How long has it been since Keir and I last spoke?

“After that, I left,” I say after a while, not really sure why I’m speaking. “I mean—I drove away. I couldn’t stay in that house.”

No one gasps. No one tells me I should’ve stayed. Instead, Gale pours more margarita into my glass, “Good.”

I blink. “Good?”

“You needed space.”

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be supervising him.”

“Let Atlas supervise him,” Nysa says. “I mean, the man practically lives for tracking people down.”

“That’s not his job anymore,” Blythe mutters. “He’s a tattoo artist.”

I stare at the glass in my hand like it might have answers at the bottom.

“I left because I was going to break. I’ve spent all this time trying to be over it, trying to stay professional and distant and fine, and then .

. .” I exhale, the breath catching somewhere between frustration and surrender. “He read the letters.”

“No offense, Simone, but if I found some letters with my name on them . . .” Del shrugs as if saying, I would be all over them.

“I didn’t think anyone would ever find them. I didn’t even think I’d read them again. But he found them, and now . . . now I have to face everything all over again.” I pause because I don’t think I can tell them about Keir almost killing his father.

Then, I remember what he said, Mal told me to leave when it came down to it. Does that mean that Mal almost killed him too? I know the beatings were bad and the hate they had for each other and their father was . . . was it so big that they wanted to eliminate him?

“He’s broken,” I say out loud. “But I can’t fix him. I now understand that I tried. I tried to be everything he needed, but I was just a teenager.”

“You loved him and didn’t know better,” Nysa states, then shifts. “Do you want him to matter again?”

That’s the question, isn’t it?

“I don’t know,” I say. “Part of me never stopped loving him. But I also never forgave him. And I don’t think I can do both.”

“You don’t have to decide today,” Blythe says gently. “You’re allowed to feel everything without picking a side.”

Everly lets out a tiny sigh in her sleep. Blythe runs her hand over the baby’s back like it’s the easiest thing in the world to soothe something small and breakable.

“I loved him so much,” I say. “So much I thought it would kill me when he left. When they placed Lyndon in Pria’s arms, I had to smile like it wasn’t tearing me apart. He wasn’t there.”

“You did the bravest thing,” Del says. “You loved him enough to let him go.”

“I don’t feel brave,” I admit. “I feel like I survived something and never let myself mourn it.”

Gale hands me a napkin. I didn’t realize I was crying until then.

“You did survive,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t still hurt.”

I stare down at the table. There’s a small stuffed dinosaur among the snacks. Probably something Everly dropped earlier. I pick it up and run my thumb along the stitching.

“He looked at me today like he was still mine,” I whisper. “And for a second, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to forget everything and just let myself want him again.”

“What would it take,” Nysa asks, “for you to let yourself want that again?”

I don’t answer. Because I’m not sure if I ever want to feel again. Maybe it would take a time machine. Perhaps it would take him rewriting every word of the past twenty years with proof that he wouldn’t leave again.

Maybe it would just take him showing up.

But for now, I let myself sit here with my friends. With tequila, tea, and pastries.

I take another sip of my margarita.

Breathe in.

And finally—finally—start to let go.