“I know,” he says, and he does. “But you don’t have to be alone.”
I pause with my keys in my hand, the metal cool against my palm. The words hang there—you don’t have to be alone—and for a heartbeat I almost let myself believe them. Almost.
But belief is dangerous.
So I do the only thing I can trust myself with: I unlock the car, slide into the driver’s seat, and shut the door.
Ben stands a few feet away, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his shoulders broad against the glow of the streetlight.
I start the engine. The headlights spill across the back wall of the Pint, pale gold against red brick. For a second, I just sit there, fingers gripping the wheel tighter than they need to, my throat thick.
The light knock on the window makes me startle.
I roll it down.
“Text me when you get home, okay?”
“I will. Thanks.” I buckle my seatbelt. “Goodnight, Ben.”
“Night, Paige.” He steps back from the car and watches as I put the car in drive and take off.
Through the glass, I risk one last glance. He’s still there, waiting, his expression lost in the shadows of the backlot.
I lift a hand off the wheel, a small wave. He gives me a nod.
The tires crunch softly against gravel as I pull out of the lot. The rearview mirror shrinks him smaller and smaller until the curve of the street takes him out of sight.
My chest aches in a way I can’t soothe. Not with ginger, not with sleep, not with anything.
There’s nothing I can do except keep going.
Chapter Twenty Two
Ben
The Wandering Pint smells like coffee and bleach this morning. I should be grateful for that. It means that, despite everything, I cleaned up right last night. Despite my memory of doing it being fuzzy, like I was walking through water.
I barely slept. Two hours, maybe three, staring at the ceiling until dawn painted a line of light across the plaster crack I keep promising myself I’ll fix. When I finally gave up on sleep, I showered, shaved half-assed, pulled on clean jeans, and drove in before the street sweepers even made their pass.
Now I stand behind the bar, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that’s gone tepid, staring at the bottles lined up on theback wall like they might start talking to me. I don’t usually drink coffee this early. Normally, I save it for that mid-afternoon crash when the prep list is longer than my patience, but I needed something to keep my eyes open.
Not that caffeine does a damn thing for the mess in my head.
Paige is pregnant.
I keep trying the words on, like new boots I haven’t broken in yet. They don’t fit. They rub against everything else inside me, scrape raw. Not because I don’t want them to be true. But because I can’t wrap my mind around what they mean.
Pregnant. Six weeks. She’s keeping it.
My kid. Our kid.
I scrub a hand over my face and mutter, “Jesus Christ,” to the empty bar. The shelves don’t offer any answers. The fan above me just continues creaking.
The door squeals open, and Charlotte’s voice fills the quiet. “You’re here early. You stayed late too, didn’t you?”
I glance over. The server has her hair piled on top of her head, hoodie half-zipped, messenger bag slipping down her shoulder. She looks extra young this morning, like she just walked off a college campus.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, keeping my tone flat.
