Page 17 of I Do, You Don't
As he heads to the door, he glances back, a smile curving his lips.
“I’ll make sure he pays.”
I think about how lucky I am to have him.
Calvin’s past is a mystery, but what little he’s shared paints a bleak picture. He grew up with Delilah’s estranged grandparents, hidden away so no one would know the truth. Delilah’s mother had an affair with my father. Calvin was the secret they buried.
I’ll never forget the day he messaged me on Instagram. Out of nowhere:We’re related.
At first, I didn’t believe him. But when I looked closer, I saw a resemblance to my father. Like staring at a stranger who already felt like family. I thought it would bring Delilah and me closer. We share a brother. We’re family.
But I was wrong.
Chapter 7
Lara
I’m supported, but that doesn’t make the loneliness any less consuming.
Days bleed into weeks, each one dragging under the weight of everything left unsaid. I’m trying to heal, but it’s slow, like wading through mud. My body moves forward, but my heart sinks deeper with every step.
I stay inside most days, wrapped in the low hum of the apartment. Calvin and my sister are the only ones I see. They check in, make sure I’m eating, sleeping, but it’s all surface. I can’t bring myself to talk about the mess I’m in. Not in a way that feels real. Not when every word feels like it might splinter me.
I don’t answer calls anymore. I respond to texts only when I have to. I don’t need to hear how sorry everyone is, or how things will get better. They won’t. I know that. Their pity is heavier than silence.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate their concern, I do. But their words don’t reach me. Not when I’m already drowning.
Each morning, I wake late and lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Even my own breath feels heavy, pressing down like stone. My thoughts loop endlessly, Gideon, betrayal, regret. They hurt too much to face, so I don’t.
Then my phone buzzes. Another missed call. This time, it’s work.
“Lara,if you call in one more day, you’re fired,” my boss says, his voice more weary than angry. “Get in here. We’re short-handed.”
I groan and sit up. I don’t want to go. I don’t have the strength. But I don’t have a choice. The bills are piling up. I need this job.
I drag myself out of bed. My limbs feel packed with sand, every movement a negotiation. I stumble to the bathroom, and freeze when I catch my reflection.
The woman in the mirror isn’t me.
She’s hollow. Lost. A version of myself that never learned how to be happy.
I twist my hair into a messy bun. Strands fall across my face, and I let them. My eyes are red, the skin beneath bruised with exhaustion. I pull on my uniform, black shirt, jeans that once fit better. Now they hang off me like borrowed clothes.
I grab my keys and head for the door.
A knock stops me.
I don’t have to look. It’s Calvin.
He steps inside, steady and grounding. He doesn’t look at me like I’m broken. His eyes don’t pity; they wait. Quiet. Careful. Watching.
“Lara, you need to pull yourself together,” he says, firm, but not unkind.
He’s not wrong. I want to argue, to tell him he has no idea how deep this pain runs. But I can’t. Not when his eyes hold that kind of gravity.
“I’m going to work,” I whisper. The words feel like a spell I’m trying to cast on myself.
“You’re not,” he says, stepping in front of the door. “I’m sorry, but you’re not. The goal is to process what you’re feeling. Not to bury it.”
