Page 57 of When We Are Complete

I close my eyes as his breath warms the space between us, his voice rough. “You have no idea how hard it is to let you go.”

I look up at him, caught in his gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us. The look in his eyes is dark, possessive, hungry. “Trust me. I know how hard it is. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And after all the thousands of times we’ve said that to one another, the words on his lips are still enough to make my heart double, triple in size, squeezing against the cage of my ribs. I slide into the driver’s seat and look up at him through the window, at his strong build silhouetted against the fading light. Harbor’s Edge might be getting colder, but everything about Jake Tanner screams heat.

“Drive safe,” he says.

“Always do,” I reply. And there’s a fire in my chest, burning right into my soul.

He steps back and I start the engine. As I pull away, I glance in the rearview mirror, once, twice, catching Jake watching me leave, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill.

As I drive away, a memory drifts up, a hidden ember—Jake at seventeen, the way he’d wait for me after school, leaning against his red Camaro with that same easy confidence, his hands tucked into his pockets, a crooked grin ready just for me. He’d always light up the second he saw me, as though I was the only person in the world who mattered.

It’s that same look he gave me today, a mix of pride and fierce loyalty, like he’d do anything to keep me safe, to make me happy. And that’s something I still love about him—his unwaveringpresence, that silent promise he’s made since we were kids. It’s never faded, even after all this time.

Chapter 32

Kelly

The next morning,I’m at work early, sitting at my desk with the door closed. The faint hum of the laptop fills the room as Dr. Bennett’s familiar face appears on screen. She’s been my therapist for years, guiding me through recovery from my eating disorder, and now, our monthly check-ins are more routine maintenance. I’ve perfected the art of these quick, superficial chats. Today’s no different.

After we say hello, I launch into my update: “Everything’s on track with my new job. I’ve reconnected with an ex-boyfriend from many years ago, and it’s all going well. For the first time since Mom died, things really seem like they’re going in the right direction.” I glance down at my desk, where I’ve neatly lined up my pens by size, and straighten the edges of a stack of papers that are already perfectly aligned.

Dr. Bennett’s eyes soften, her expression encouraging. “That’s wonderful. It sounds as though you’re in a really good place. And how has your anxiety and OCD been?”

“Mostly under control,” I say. “Just the usual mild intrusive thoughts. Nothing I can’t handle.”

I don’t mention how, when stress creeps in, those thoughts get louder, or the food rules about what I can and can’t eat, how much, and when. It’s become second nature now. Too ingrained to feel worth discussing. And I don’t want to worry Dr. Bennett when there’s nothing to worry about. Why would I? None of it’s a problem anymore, especially not the food stuff. I’m recovered.

“That’s good to hear,” she says, but there’s a note of concern, and for a moment I worry she knows I’m skipping over something. “Just remember, it’s not about being perfect. Progress is what counts. Progress, not perfection. You’re allowed to have tough days.”

I plaster on my best breezy smile. “Right. Progress, not perfection. Got it.”

She watches me for a moment. “Well, keep doing what you’re doing. But Kelly, if those thoughts start to get louder, or if you’re struggling, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Thanks, Dr. Bennett, but I’m good. Really.”

We exchange a few more pleasantries before wrapping up. As soon as the call ends, I snap the laptop shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

I stare at the wall opposite for a moment, the room unnervingly still. Dr. Bennett’s words replay in my head—progress, not perfection. It’s a mantra I’ve heard a thousand times, but somehow, it’s not meant for me.

Perfection is attainable with enough work, enough dedication.

I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly, trying to convince myself that I am fine, that I’ve got everything under control. But there’s that familiar whisper in the back of my mind, telling me I’m only one misstep away from failure. I close my eyes, blocking it out. I’ve come too far to let myself slip now.

I lean forward, tapping my fingers against the desk, once, twice, and line up my pens in color order.

“Everything’s fine,” I tell myself aloud.

I know how to make things work, to push aside intrusive thoughts and doubts. I’ve been doing it for years—smiling, nailing presentations, organizing impressive events, wowing clients. I’ve got my game face on, the one that screamsKelly Charleston has her shit together. And why wouldn’t I? The festival’s shaping up to be exactly what the mayor wanted, and things with Jake really are going well.

I swivel in my chair, the leather creaking under me, and let out a breath, scanning the office oasis I’ve created—I really am fine. More than fine. I’ve been doing great, haven’t I? Work, Jake, the festival—it’s all under control. So what if I avoid carbs or make sure my meals are perfectly portioned? I’m not starving myself. It’s just being healthy. Being in control.

None of it is that big of a deal. I’m a Charleston woman, after all. Charleston women don’t fall apart. They don’t let stress swallow them whole. They handle things. They make sure everything runs smoothly. And these little food rules? They’re just part of the routine. Not a problem. I’m just being responsible.

But then, uninvited, a flicker of Adele’s face enters my mind. The way she pushed the cake around on her plate, how she barely took a bite before hiding the rest in her napkin. That critical look she gave herself in the selfies she was taking with her friends.

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