Page 20 of Love on the Edge
My voice is sharp, lethal. "You’re what? 23 and up until last night, you were a virgin. I wonder if there’s a reason for that?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I fucked up beyond repair.
She goes completely still.
For a second, I think she’s just going to walk away. That she’s going to be the bigger person. That I got the last word.
But then—
Her chest rises, slow and controlled, like she’s deciding whether or not to say what she’s about to say. Like she knows it’ll ruin everything, and she’s choosing to do it anyway.
Her lips part slightly, and something shifts in her eyes. Not just anger. Something colder. Sharper.
And then she destroys me.
"No wonder your wife left," she whispers.
It hits like a gunshot.
I stagger back a step, my lungs locking up, my body refusing to move, refusing to react, refusing to do anything but feel the weight of those five words.
Valeria doesn’t wait for me to recover. She turns and walks out, her steps sharp, final.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I was already wounded, but this? This guts me.
A hand claps on my shoulder. Firm. Steady.
Harry. Joanne stands a few steps behind him, arms crossed, watching me carefully.
“She’s tough, son,” Harry says, voice gruff but knowing. “But I’ve never heard her that worked up. You got under her skin, but she didn’t mean that. I know she’s regretting it now.”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said what I said back to her.”
Harry exhales through his nose, nodding once. “Maybe not. But what’s done is done.”
Joanne adds, her voice softer, reassuring. “Give it time.”
Harry watches me for a second, then gestures toward the door. “Why don’t you take the rest of the morning off? We’re not busy.”
I hesitate. Then, I nod. And I leave.
I go straight to Drew’s.
I work here five days a week. I love this job, I always have. I just wish it was enough so that I never had to take the second job. I wish I didn’t need to keep stretching myself thin just to make things work.
But now? Now, I’m thinking of quitting the rink more than ever.
The garage is quiet this early, the overhead lights humming. The scent of motor oil and metal lingers in the air—familiar, grounding, steady. The kind of thing you can count on.
Rows of neatly organized tools line the walls, every wrench and socket exactly where it belongs. Simple. No guessing. No surprises. The Camaro Drew’s been rebuilding sits in the center of the bay, hood up, parts scattered over the workbench like an unfinished puzzle.
I exhale slowly, letting the smell of grease and old leather settle over me. Trying to let it steady me.
This place has always been a second home. You fix what’s broken. You tighten the bolts. You put in the work, and it pays off.
By the end of the day, there’s something to show for it.
Unlike everything else in my life.
