Chapter Three

The next morning, I called in sick. Alice left early for her shift at the gallery, but only after I promised not to answer the door to anyone.

I spent most of the day in a fog, watching nothing in particular on the TV.

At some point, I stood in front of the mirror and stared at the shadows under my eyes, the puffiness in my cheeks, the dullness of my expression.

I looked like a girl unraveling.

By late afternoon, the dread had morphed into restless energy. I found myself walking again—no plan, no destination. Just distance.

Eventually, I looked up and realized I was standing across the street from James' apartment.

My hand was already halfway through brushing the hair off my face, holding it at the crown like a tether, like it would keep the rest of me from falling apart.

Just do it. Just fucking do it.

The lights were on. He was home and awake. He'd never been unreceptive of a spontaneous visit in the past, so why was I suddenly scared he would be more?

Part of me worried that if he was cold or indifferent tonight, I would completely snap. I was hanging by threads—I knew that much.

He answered the door wearing a towel and a grin. "You're early," he said.

"Shut up," I muttered and pushed past him.

"Well, come on in, then," he chuckled.

I dropped onto his couch and buried my face in my hands. "I just need . . . something that isn't him."

James didn't move for a second, and then he sat beside me. Not close, just beside.

"You want to talk about it?"

I lifted my head and looked at him sideways. "Do you want me to?"

He shrugged. "Not really. But if you need to, I'll listen."

I didn't talk. I just leaned over and let my head fall onto his shoulder.

He didn't say anything. He just let it happen.

Time passed slowly after that. We didn't move for a while. James eventually offered me a glass of wine, which I accepted even though I probably shouldn't have. But it warmed me from the inside, dulled the ache in my chest just enough to keep breathing.

He cooked us pasta, now dressed in a tshirt and flannel pajama pants after I'd practically burst in on him post-shower.

The sauce was nothing fancy, and I doubted I'd taste it anyway.

He didn't ask questions, and I didn't offer explanations. It was an unspoken agreement between us—I could exist in his space without having to perform any version of myself.

The kitchen filled with the familiar scent of garlic and olive oil, something comforting and simple. I leaned on the counter and watched him stir the sauce like he actually cared about how it turned out.

"So," James said without looking up, obviously feeling the need to fill the silence, "what happened after you left yesterday morning?"

I hesitated. My fingers toyed with the stem of my wineglass.

"Alice came over. We tore the place apart," I said. "I threw out everything he ever touched. Took three garbage bags to the curb and started a donation pile. I think we even found one of his socks to burn.

James grinned. "Sounds cathartic."

"It was. Kind of. It also kind of broke me in half."

He nodded slowly. "That tracks."

I folded my arms over my chest. "He left me a bunch of voicemails after I caught him. The eighth one… he said goodbye. Like, really goodbye. I thought he was going to kill himself. Alice called just after I heard it, and I think if she hadn't and then ran over like she did, I would've lost it."

James stopped stirring. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"I mean... did he?"

"Well he kept calling and leaving voice messages, so probably not."

"Just being emotionally abusive as always," he muttered.

I didn't respond.

He turned the burner off and looked at me then. "I know I joke around a lot, but if you ever get something like that again, I'm serious. Call me. Day or night. I mean it."

I swallowed hard. "Thanks. I didn't even really think about it. Alice called mid-freak out, and came literally running. And then today... I just… started walking. And somehow I ended up back here."

"Not the worst instinct you've ever had," he said, half smiling.

I managed a small laugh.

"How are you now?"

"Like my body is still trying to shake the fear off but can't remember how," I said. "And like I might cry if you overcook that pasta."

He grinned and drained the pot. "Good thing I'm not a monster."

We plated our food and sat cross-legged on the couch with mismatched bowls, the wine between us.

It wasn't much. But it was enough.

It was comfortable in his living room, music low, a second bottle of wine open on the coffee table.

After we finished eating James stood in front of the ironing board that was perpetually set up in the corner, pressing a navy button-up shirt with a surprising amount of care for someone who claimed to have no emotional attachments.

I lay stretched across the couch, thumbing through a three-month-old magazine I wasn't actually reading. My mind drifted, cycling through flashbacks and static.

James' voice pulled me out of it.

"Bella, I've got something to tell you," he announced, not looking up from the ironing board.

"What?" I asked.

"This may come as mildly surprising, but I've never 'cheated' on you," he said, casual as ever.

I rolled my eyes and looked back to the magazine. "That's not surprising seeing as we've never actually been together."

"Not technically, but that doesn't mean that we don't have a relationship."

"James, you sleep with other people when I'm not around. I think that would be a definition of 'cheating' in our relationship-by-technicality."

"Not until at least ten days after you leave," he stated.

I looked up again, that part mildly surprising. "You have a buffering period?" I questioned.

He sighed loudly, putting the now ironed shirt on a wooden hanger. "Baby, you know I want you to myself. When the day comes that you want me too, I don't want to have another girl here when you show up."

His words landed like an unexpected thud in my chest. I sat with them a moment, unsure of what to do with the strange ache they left behind. The idea that he'd made space in his life for me—a literal waiting period—was something I hadn't let myself consider before.

"What if I never want you like that? You'll just keep waiting?"

"Yeah," James said simply. "It's become a habit now, so yeah."

I studied him for a long moment. He'd always been kind of weird when I met him back in college—not in a bad way, just... different. Back then, I found him almost boring. Too quiet, too chill. He wasn't wrapped up in the drama like everyone else in our group. No theatrics, no emotional explosions. I used to think it made him dull. Now... I think maybe he just had his shit together. Or more of it than I ever did.

He could be an idiot sometimes, sure—his moments of clown-level dumbassery were well-documented—but under all of that, there was this bedrock of calm. Of consistency.

I used to think that made him safe. And boring.

Now I think maybe it just made him safe.

It had only taken until 25 to finally start to realize that safety doesn't mean stagnation. It means someone you can count on not to implode the second you need them.

It means someone who irons their shirt on a Tuesday night because they want to look decent for whatever the hell they have going on tomorrow. Someone who keeps wine in the house just in case. Someone who keeps space in their bed—and their life—for you, even when you don't deserve it.

I didn't say any of that out loud.

But I watched him hang up the shirt and pick up his glass and sit down beside me again, and I knew that when the ache in my chest finally faded, this moment would still be there, waiting to mean something more.

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