Page 133 of Bleacher Report
“That’s not what this is,” I whisper. “It’s just...you should be in New Jersey. And my life is in Seattle. It’s just...bad timing.”
I want to tell him everything. That Bethany threatened to pull the deal if I don’t break it off, but then he’ll burn his bridge with Bethany and that won’t help Carly. They need to do this together or Carly won’t budge.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Peyton.” His voice is brittle. “I’ll be fine.”
“Do you want me to send you your stuff from the townhouse so you have things here?”
“Already kicking me out?” he says, and I have no idea how to respond. I just know that seeing his things in my house is going to keep this cut from healing. But I didn’t mean to hurt him with the idea of moving his things out.
“I don’t care what you do with them,” he says finally.
He takes another slow sip of his coffee and then glances at me before turning back to check in on his mother. “You should head back to the house. If you want to make your flight, you’ll need time to pack. Safe travels.”
Then he walks away without another word, back into Carly’s room.
Bethany doesn’t look smug when our eyes meet. She just looks tired.
I don’t have the strength to glare. Or argue.
My heart splinters in my chest, a hundred sharp pieces pressing against my ribs. But I know—deep down—I did the right thing.
Even if it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done.
I turn down the hallway, blinking fast to keep the tears from forming. When I glance down, the tea is dripping down the cardboard cup, my hand squeezing it too tight. I didn’t even realize it until now.
I toss it into the trash and keep walking.
I hope my father would be proud of me…because right now, that’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Chapter Twenty-Six
HUNTER
The sun's beginning to set as I steer the rental car onto I-280, a road I could drive in my sleep. It’s late by the time the hospital discharges my mother, the sky is a dull steel gray, heavy with low clouds that look like they could split open any minute. The kind of winter evening that settles in your chest and refuses to let go.
It’s been two days since Peyton left New Jersey.
Beside me, my mom sits bundled in a thick scarf one of her salon clients crocheted for her as a Christmas gift. Her cheeks are pale, her eyes a little sunken, but she’s awake, alert, better than she was when she collapsed in the kitchen. I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening.
She collapsed in my arms on Christmas morning, and the memory is still seared in my mind. Bethany was the one whomade the call to 911, and Peyton was the one who kept me grounded while the paramedics wheeled my mother out of the house.
Now Peyton’s gone. And I’m still trying to figure out if I let her leave or if she just walked away without giving me a say.
"You’re quiet," Carly says softly, her voice still raspy from the hospital air.
I nod. "Just thinking."
What I don’t say is that Peyton’s voice keeps echoing in my head.
Maybe this is the right move for you.
She said it like it was a kindness. Like she wasn’t cutting herself out of the equation entirely. She didn’t ask me to stay. She didn’t ask if I wanted her to.
And yeah, maybe I’m pissed. Not just at her. At myself too. Because I didn’t fight her on it. But what could I do? We agreed to temporary.
My phone buzzes in the center console. I glance down and see my agent’s name.
"Mind if I take this?" I ask my mom.
