Page 5 of The Wreckage Of Us (US #2)

Brittany

I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open though the night was heavy and silent around me.

The moonlight slanted through the half-closed blinds, spilling pale silver across my bedroom floor.

My chest ached, but not from any physical wound — it was the hollow kind of ache, the one that doesn’t quite let you breathe right, the one that curls around your heart and tightens when you remember what you’ve lost.

Ace.

His name alone was enough to start the war inside me all over again. My fingers dug into the blanket as I forced myself to turn over, pulling it over my head like it could block out the memory of his voice. The knock on the door last night. The one before. The night before that.

Every single time, I had stood there on the other side of the door, fists clenched, jaw locked, eyes squeezed shut, listening to him whisper my name like a broken prayer.

“Brittany… baby, please… just open the door. Just five minutes. I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

I pressed my forehead to the cool wooden door, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. But I never turned the handle. Never gave in. Because the moment I did, I knew I would break.

I couldn’t trust myself around Ace.

Not anymore.

I sat up slowly as sunlight crept into the room. The sound of a soft knock on the front door pulled me out of my thoughts. My heart jumped — for one raw second I thought it was him. Ace, back again, desperate for a conversation, another chance to claw his way into my guarded world.

But when I cracked open the door, it was Sylvia.

“Morning, Brit,” Sylvia greeted softly, her kind eyes studying my face. She was clutching a paper bag, her dark hair pulled into a loose bun, no makeup on, just the natural beauty she always carried so easily.

“Morning,” I said hoarsely, stepping aside to let her in.

She walked in cautiously, like she was testing the air. “Brought you those scones you love,” she offered with a small smile, lifting the bag. “Figured you hadn’t been eating much.”

I tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Thanks, Syl.”

We settled at the kitchen table. She handed me a cup of coffee she had thoughtfully picked up too, and for a while, we sat in companionable silence — until she exhaled, folded her hands on the table, and gave me that look.

“I ran into Ace again today,” she said quietly.

My spine stiffened. My fingers tightened around the mug.

“Brit… he’s not doing well,” Sylvia continued, watching me carefully. “He’s… lost. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s at the gym at all hours, but half the time he’s just sitting in the corner, staring at nothing. And when he’s not there, he’s… here. Outside. Waiting.”

I closed my eyes, exhaling shakily. “Syl, I can’t—”

“I know you’re hurting, Brittany.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “But so is he.”

I shot her a sharp glance. “You think I don’t know that?” My voice cracked, and I hated how raw I sounded. “You think I don’t feel it every time I hear his voice outside my door? Every time I hear him say my name like it’s the only word that matters to him? You think I want to shut him out?”

Sylvia reached across the table, covering my trembling hand with hers. “Then why are you?”

A bitter laugh tore from my throat. “Because I have to.” My chest heaved. “Because if I let him back in, Syl, I’ll lose myself all over again. I’ll forget why I left in the first place. I’ll forgive him too easily, and then when he breaks me again, I’ll only have myself to blame.”

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I shoved a hand through my hair, trying to pull myself together, but the emotions were a rising tide now, impossible to stop.

“I love him,” I whispered brokenly. “God help me, I love him so much it hurts to breathe, but I can’t survive another heartbreak. I swore to myself — I swore to you — that I’d protect my heart this time. And that means not letting him near it.”

Sylvia was quiet for a long moment. She squeezed my hand before letting go, leaning back in her chair with a sad, thoughtful expression.

“I get it,” she murmured. “I really do. But Brit… you should see him. He’s not the same. He’s…” She shook her head, swallowing hard. “He’s unraveling without you.”

A sob nearly escaped my throat, but I forced it down, pressing a trembling hand to my mouth.

“Don’t,” I croaked. “Please, Syl. Don’t make me feel sorry for him. Don’t make me second-guess myself.”

Sylvia hesitated, and then her eyes softened. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’ll back off.”

We sat in aching silence.

But that night, as I lay in bed, Sylvia’s words circled in my mind like restless ghosts.

He’s unraveling without you.

I hated myself for wondering what he was doing right then. For wondering if he was sitting on his couch in the dark, head in his hands, chest aching the way mine was. For wondering if he was sleeping — or if, like me, he was lying there wide awake, drowning in memories.

I hated that I could still feel him. Still sense the echo of his laugh, the rough edge of his voice whispering in my ear, the weight of his arms wrapped around me in the middle of the night.

I curled into a ball, burying my face in the pillow. My heart screamed his name, even when my lips refused to.

The days passed. He kept showing up. And I kept pretending not to notice.

I’d see his car parked across the street when I left for work — him slouched in the driver’s seat, running his hands through his hair, eyes fixed on my door. I knew he waited just to catch a glimpse of me, just to remind me he was there.

Some nights I’d hear him pacing outside, the faint sound of his voice murmuring to himself.

“Come on, Brittany. Just open the damn door. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words would land like stones in my stomach.

And every time, I stayed frozen in place, back pressed to the wall, silent tears streaking down my cheeks.

I didn’t know how long this could go on.

I didn’t know how long I could go on.

One evening, Sylvia knocked on my door again, stepping inside with a heavy sigh.

“He’s outside,” she said quietly, dropping her purse onto the counter. “Again.”

I didn’t look up from the dishes I was washing.

“Brittany.” Her voice was soft but insistent. “He’s sitting on the steps. Head in his hands. He looks… broken. More than usual.”

A sharp pain sliced through my chest. My knees almost buckled, but I gripped the sink to steady myself.

Sylvia stepped closer. “Are you sure you don’t want to just… talk to him?”

I turned around slowly, water dripping from my fingertips. My throat worked, but no sound came out for a moment.

“I can’t,” I finally whispered.

Her shoulders sagged, a deep sadness filling her expression. She gave a small nod, walking over to squeeze my arm before slipping out the door.

I stood there, trembling.

An hour later, when I finally mustered the courage to peek out the window, Ace was gone.

But the ache in my chest?

That stayed.

And as I crawled into bed, pulling the blankets tight around me, a thought slipped into my mind, sharp and sudden as a blade:

What if I’m breaking both of us?

The thought terrified me.

But more terrifying still… was the part of me that wanted to run out the door and into his arms.

The part of me I was fighting every single day.