Page 99 of The Pucking Date
The way he looks at me, like I’m a stranger wearing his lover’s face, steals every breath from my lungs.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I didn’t mean to?—”
He shakes his head, stepping back. Not far. Just enough.
“Doesn’t matter now,” he says. “You made your move.”
And just like that, I understand. This isn’t about the baby. This is about trust. About me proving that when it mattered most, I didn’t choose him. I chose myself.
The silence that falls between us is deafening. And I can’t stand here one more second, wearing his shirt and his scent and his heartbreak like a bruise I put on both of us.
“I should go,” I say, grabbing my phone with fingers that barely work.
I want to stay. Crawl back into his arms. Apologize with every inch of me, even if I’ll never deserve the grace.
But he’s standing there—silent, distant—staring at something only he can see. And staying would mean watching him decide I’m no longer his.
“Go ahead,” he says softly. “It’s what you do.”
I flinch. He’s right. This is what I do. I run the momentthings get real. I ran from Montreal. I ran from telling him. And now I’m about to run again, proving every doubt he’s ever had about me.
My hands shake as I grab my jeans, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the quiet between us. Jacket. Shoes. Phone. Movements jerky, unsteady.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, and something slips. Red lace hits the floor. I freeze.
He sees it.
I hesitate. Just for a second. A breath. Then I turn toward the door.
Behind me, I hear him approach. He picks it up, this scrap of red that once meant possession, desire, claiming. Now he places it gently in my bag like he’s returning something that was never really his.
The tenderness in the gesture breaks me completely. Because this is Finn. Even destroying me, he’s careful with my heart.
But that’s it. He won’t fight for me anymore.
My throat burns. I grip the doorknob with numb fingers. Three months ago, I ran from him because I was scared of how much I wanted him. Now I’m running again, but this time, he’s letting me go.
“I was trying to do things right,” I murmur, still not looking at him. “But maybe I was just scared.”
The silence stretches. Then, so quietly I almost miss it:
“I would’ve stayed, Red. For you. For us. I would’ve stayed.”
Past tense. The finality of it drops me to my knees.
I close the door behind me and finally let myself shatter.
23
EVEN NOW
JESSICA
By the time I make it to Sophie and Liam’s apartment, night has settled in, the city humming below their high-rise in a restless, sleepless thrum. I’ve been holding myself together with pure willpower for twelve hours. Now, standing in their hallway, I finally feel safe enough to fall apart. I step inside and kick off my heels with a groan—part exhaustion, part soul-deep ache.
The place smells faintly like lavender from Sophie’s diffuser. Liam’s not home; he drove to Brooklyn to have dinner with his parents. Sophie stayed behind. For me. Didn’t say it, but I know. And I’m grateful.
Sophie’s curled up on the couch in leggings and a Columbia sweatshirt, nestled under a throw blanket. She holds her mug in both hands, the picture of calm. She glances up when I walk in, her expression all concern and restraint—no pity, which is probably the only reason I don’t burst into tears on the spot.
