Page 2 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)
Phoenix
“I don’t love you.”
The words land like a scalpel in the silence.
I look straight into Drew’s face, watching the flicker in his eyes.
“I care about you… But it’s like chronic inflammation—persistent, dull, the kind that simmers under the surface.
Not the kind that stops your heart and leaves you gasping.
Not the kind of passion I’m looking for. ”
He winces. “Are you—breaking up with me?”
Sweat pools at my neck, sliding down my back. My heart pounds. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to hold it together.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Everything happened so fast, and it was easier to just go along with it. You were familiar. I didn’t stop to ask myself what I really wanted.”
All true. I’m doing the right thing. Doesn’t mean it makes me feel less horrible.
“What brought this on?” he rasps. “I thought we were okay.”
I breathe out a humorless laugh. “When was the last time we actually spent an evening together?”
He blinks, clearly scrambling for an answer.
“I’ll tell you—we haven’t. Not in six months. We work opposite shifts. We barely text, let alone talk. We’ve become strangers. It’s time we face the facts, Drew. I need more from a relationship. You need more.”
“I’m happy as we are.” He sets his jaw.
“I don't believe you. And anyway, I’m not. I want the kind of love that knocks the breath out of me. Consumes me. I want to crave my man like oxygen—need to hear his voice just to function, ache for him when he’s not beside me.
I want to wake up and fall asleep with him on my mind, every single day.
I want a love that makes me feel alive. ”
He scoffs, “That kind of love doesn’t exist.”
Tension coils at the base of my neck. Maybe it doesn’t, for him. But I have to believe it does. Because if it doesn’t, then what’s the point of the endless ER shifts? Of leaving home at eighteen to build a future I could be proud of?
What am I working so hard for, if not for something more?
“Maybe.” I turn away. “But if I shut myself off from it, I’ll never know.”
“You need to stop reading those delusional books that fill your head with nonsense,” he snaps.
He means my books on manifestation. On choosing your future. On believing you deserve more.
“At least, I’m brave enough to face the truth,” I say, curling my fingers into fists.
“And what truth is that?”
“That we were never meant to be anything more than friends.”
He sets his jaw.
I take a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Drew. That’s why I couldn’t say it before. But the longer we pretend, the harder it gets. I know what I want. And it’s not this. That’s why we need to end it—before we both get pulled deeper into something that was never real.”
"Now I get it,” he spits, his eyes flashing with venom. “You never wanted me to meet your family because, deep down, you always knew you were going to break up with me.”
He spins on his heel and storms toward the back door.
“Drew, wait—where are you going?” I chase after him, stepping out onto the patio, the early morning air biting against my skin.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance back. Just keeps striding toward his bike, like he can outrun the mess we’ve become.
“Drew,” I try again, voice tight, “you shouldn’t ride when you’re this angry.”
That stops him. For a second.
He throws a bitter look over his shoulder. “Why do you care?” His voice is a whip. “You’d probably be relieved if I crash and die.”
“Don’t say that!” I shout, throwing my hands up in frustration. “Don’t you dare say that. Come back. Please. Let’s just talk?—”
But he’s already unlocking the padlock, already throwing one leg over the frame. No helmet. No hesitation. No goodbyes.
And then—he’s gone.
I stand there, frozen, as the sound of his wheels fades.
My hands fall uselessly to my sides. I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging it loose from its messy bun so it spills down around my shoulders in a heavy curtain.
Every conversation we have is a battlefield, and I don’t even know what we’re fighting for anymore.
Thankfully, we no longer share a bed. He moved into the guest room, so our schedules at the hospital wouldn’t disturb each other. It made sense at the time.
Now, it feels like foreshadowing.
I swipe at the moisture that clings to my cheeks, but the tears keep coming. I’ll give myself this time to get a handle on the open wound that is my life. Two minutes.
I let the tears flow. When the choking sensation in my throat eases somewhat, I take deep breaths.
Then spin around and march into the kitchen. I splash water on my face, snatch a dish towel to wipe at my face, then toss it aside. I throw my hair into a messy bun and pull myself together. Because I don’t have time to fall apart.
Reaching my room, I step into my favorite pair of sneakers. I prefer to buy a new pair of footwear only when the previous ones wear out. It’s a game I play with myself—tracking how long each pair lasts and trying to get the next one to wear out faster. These are almost there.
I grab my oversized backpack on my way out, pulling out my phone as I walk down the short path to the sidewalk, then stop. A prickling at the nape of my neck makes me pause.
I look up and down the tree-lined street. It’s quiet, except for the chirping of the birds. It’s only 6:30 a.m. I step onto the sidewalk.
I used to love walking to work. The quiet. The early morning air. The way the sunlight trickles through the branches of the trees that line the pavement like sentinels. It made me feel grounded—safe, even. At least, it used to—until a few days ago, when I first had this sensation of being watched.
I glance over my shoulder. Cars line both sides of the narrow street—compact hatchbacks, a weathered SUV, the silver antique that always leaks oil. And then there’s that white van. Again.
I only noticed it because I like to watch the magpies feeding their young in the chestnut tree at the top of the street, and the van is parked in front of it.
Same position. Same smudged windscreen. With the name of a building services company painted onto the side.
Do workmen even show up before dawn?
I don’t know my neighbors well enough to ask who’s having what done to their kitchen or loft. But that van’s been here for over a week—maybe longer.
I roll my weight from foot to foot.
It’s probably nothing. Just another vehicle taking up space on an already cramped road.
I shake off the feeling of disquiet, hook my AirPods into my ears, and flick on the medical podcast I’ve been listening to.
I get immersed in it, and before long I’m crossing at the light in front of the hospital. The employees’ entrance is separate from the main one, tucked away on a quieter side street.
A small knot of people has gathered beneath one of the trees lining the sidewalk. They’re looking up at the branches of the tree.
I reach them just as one of them cries out, “She’s going to fall.”
I look up to find a small gray tabby, clinging to a branch, her body trembling with effort. She lets out a desperate yowl, claws scrabbling against the bark as the branch sways beneath her weight.
“Someone needs to rescue that cat.” A man in jogging shorts and T-shirt nods sagely.
The same woman who’d cried out earlier clasps her hands together. “Mina, please, come down kitty.”
The cat’s back leg slips.
A collective gasp breaks the morning quiet.
The cat lets out another desperate cry and scrabbles for balance as the branch wobbles.
That’s when he appears.