Page 41 of The Words of Us

I keep going over everything she said the last time we spoke. Her apology, the way her voice broke when she admitted why she didn’t tell me about Gareth. I understand now, I really do. She was scared, just like I am. Scared of losing something that mattered, scared of being judged for her past. And deep down, I know I’ve already forgiven her. I forgave her the moment she left the bookstore.

But forgiveness doesn’t mean I can reach out. It doesn’t mean I can push past the fear that’s been sitting in my chest, hard and unmoving, since the day she told me the truth. Because forgiveness is one thing, but trusting her again... that’s something else entirely.

And yet, here I am, every day, hoping she’ll come back. Wishing she’d walk through the door of this coffee shop or the bookstore, like nothing ever happened. I want her to fight for us, to prove to me that she’s not going to disappear. That I can trust her not to leave.

But maybe that’s unfair. Maybe I’m asking for too much.

The days blur together, each one a repeat of the last. I go to the bookstore, I shelve books, I help customers, but my mind is always somewhere else. Always on Sasha. Every night, I lie awake, thinking about her, waiting for something to change. Waiting for her to come back. But she doesn’t.

It’s late afternoon when the bell above the door rings. I’m behind the counter, lost in thought, flipping through the pages of a book I’ve read a hundred times. I look up, half-expecting another regular customer, but it’s not.

It’s Glass.

He steps inside, his usual swagger toned down, his expression serious in a way I’m not used to seeing. He looks around the bookstore, his sharp eyes taking in the familiar space before landing on me.

“Well, look who’s still hiding,” he says, his voice light, but there’s an edge to it. He walks over to the counter, resting his hands on it as he looks me over. “You look like hell, Evie.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to muster some kind of defense. “Nice to see you too, Glass.”

He shrugs, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “You know why I’m here.”

I glance down at the counter, suddenly feeling exposed. “If this is about Sasha?—”

“Of course it’s about Sasha,” he interrupts, his tone sharp but not unkind. “She’s a mess, you’re a mess, and I’m getting tired of watching the two of you dance around each other like this.”

I swallow hard, feeling a lump form in my throat. “It’s not that simple.”

Glass sighs, leaning in a little closer. “I know it’s not simple. I’m not saying it is. But what are you waiting for, Evie? She laid everything out for you. She was honest, finally. And you’re sitting here, what? Wishing she’d come back? Hoping she’ll fix this?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He knows.

“Look, I get it,” he continues, his voice softer now. “You’ve been hurt before. You’ve got your reasons for not reaching out. But Sasha’s not your mom. She’s not going to leave you the way your mom did. And you know that.”

I flinch at the mention of my mom, the old wound still too raw. “Idon’tknow that.”

“Yes, you do,” he says firmly. “You know her. You know she’s not going to just walk away from this unless you make her believe there’s nothing left to fight for.”

I blink back the tears that are threatening to fall. “I’ve already forgiven her, Glass. I understand why she didn’t tell me. I get it. But I can’t—” My voice cracks, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I can’t reach out. I can’t be the one to do it.”

He nods slowly, like he expected that answer. “You’re scared. I get it. But here’s the thing: You don’t have to be the one to fix everything. You just need to let her know that you’re willing to try. She’s out there, Evie. She’s waiting for you to give her a sign. Any sign.”

I look away, unable to meet his gaze. “What if it’s too late?”

Glass gives me a sad smile. “It’s only too late if you let it be.”

We stand in silence for a long moment, the weight of his words sinking in. I know he’s right. Deep down, I know that if I don’t do something, I’m going to lose her. Maybe I already have. But the fear, it’s still there, gnawing at me, keeping me from reaching out.

“Do you love her?” Glass asks, his voice gentle now.

I don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

I don’t have an answer. I don’t have anything.

All I have is the hope that maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late.

I clutch my journal so tightly my knuckles are white, the worn leather cool against my clammy hands. My heart’s been racing since I woke up this morning, and it hasn’t slowed down. It won’t. Not until I know whether or not she’s coming. Whether or notthey’recoming.

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