Page 88 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Brett staggers backward, arms windmilling as he tries to keep his balance while Scout plants his paws on his chest and attempts to lick his face with dedication like he’s found his life’s purpose.
“Down! Scout, down!” Jack calls, but he’s laughing too hard to sound authoritative.
Brett finally manages to regain his footing, though Scout remains convinced that what the moment really needs is more enthusiastic face-washing.
“Your dog,” Brett says to Jack, gently but firmly pushing Scout’s paws off his chest, “has boundary issues.”
“He likes you,” Jack says with a grin. “Consider it a compliment.”
“I’ll consider it a reason to bring treats next time,” Brett mutters, but he’s scratching behind Scout’s ears with genuine affection.
The brief moment of chaos breaks something loose in my chest. Because this—friends who show up at dawn without asking questions, dogs who express joy without reservation, people who stick around even when you’re clearly working through something—this is what Michelle was fighting to preserve in Twin Waves.
This is what I might have destroyed by choosing fear over faith.
“We should head back,” Jack says, checking his watch. “Hazel will have breakfast ready, and Scout needs to rediscover his manners before he terrorizes any more innocent joggers.”
As we turn to retrace our steps along the beach, the sun climbs higher, transforming the angry dawn colors into something softer and more hopeful. The wind still cuts through our layers, but it feels less punishing now.
“The truth is,” Brett says quietly as we walk, Scout trotting beside us, “the right person won’t make you choose between protecting them and trusting them.”
The observation settles into the hollow space in my chest where certainty used to live. Because Brett’s right—the right person should be able to handle the truth, even when it’s complicated and scary and potentially dangerous.
The question is whether I’ve already lost my chance to find out if Michelle is that person.
NINETEEN
MICHELLE
The coffee cup slips from my fingers, ceramic shattering against the hardwood floor with a sound that echoes through my empty apartment like a gunshot. The dark liquid spreads across the boards, seeping into every crack and crevice, permanent stains that will remind me of this moment long after I’ve swept up the pieces.
I’m not ready for the kind of relationship that can survive professional complications.
His words loop through my mind on endless repeat, each iteration cutting deeper than the last. Seven years of careful rebuilding, of learning to trust again, of believing that maybe—just maybe—I’d found a man who saw me as more than disposable when things got inconvenient.
I was wrong. Again.
I sink to my knees, picking up ceramic shards with trembling hands while my chest contracts around the familiar ache of betrayal. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Another man who built intimacy to serve his own purposes, then discarded me the moment our connection threatened his professional interests.
The clinical language he used to dissect our relationship sits like acid in my throat. As if what we shared was nothingmore than a liability to be managed, a risk to be mitigated, a complication to be resolved.
Exactly like David.
My phone buzzes against the coffee table. Jessica’s name lights up the screen, but I can’t face her knowing sympathy right now. Can’t handle the gentle questions about how I’m processing this latest demonstration that my judgment in men remains flawed.
Another buzz. Then another. The concerned cavalry assembles, no doubt alerted by whatever gossip network carries news of personal disasters at light speed through Twin Waves. In a town this size, relationship drama becomes community property before the principals finish having it.
I ignore the phone and focus on cleaning up the mess. Methodical, careful movements give my hands something to do while my brain attempts to process the fact that I’ve been an idiot twice in one lifetime. That I actually believed Grayson Reed might be different from every other man who’s ever decided my feelings were secondary to his ambitions.
The apartment feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing closer as my carefully constructed independence reveals itself as the house of cards it’s always been. Because that’s the real knife twist here—not just that he chose professional safety over personal risk, but that he made me want things I’d sworn off. Made me believe partnership could exist without exploitation.
Made me think I’d learned to recognize genuine connection from manipulation disguised as intimacy.
A sharp knock interrupts my spiral into self-recrimination. Then another, more insistent.
“Michelle? I know you’re in there.” Jessica’s voice carries through the door.
“I’m fine,” I call back, my voice cracking on the lie.
