Page 20 of The Breakup Broker

“I amnotimpossible,” she argued, dragging out the word like it was my fault. “You’re heavy-handed. Like a caveman. A caveman with stupid, nice hands…”

Her voice faltered, and her brow furrowed as if she had realized what she said. I focused on securing the bandage, ignoring the way a knot formed in my chest.

“Let’s get you to bed,” I said.

Her bedroom was down the hall, the door ajar. I nudged it open with my foot, moonlight spilling across a space that was unmistakably Savvy—books on nearly every surface, a reading nook under the window, and fairy lights glowing faintly above the bed.

“You still make terrible life choices,” she mumbled as I set her gently on the mattress. “Like showing up here. Like still smelling like you did back then. Like making me remember … when I don’t want to.”

“Sleep, Savvy.” I pulled the quilt over her, my hand lingering for a moment on her shoulder.

“You can’t tell me what to do anymore,” she whispered, curling onto her side, hair spilling across the pillow. “You lost that right when you decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

The words hit like a physical blow. I stayed there for a beat, watching her breathing slowly, her expression relaxing in sleep.

“You were worth everything,” I murmured, the confession slipping out. But she was gone to the world, leaving me alone in the silence.

I stood by her bed a moment longer, exhaling slowly. “You always did make a place feel like home.”It was a spaceentirelyhers, familiar and foreign, like seeing the outline of someone you used to know.

We needed to talk. There was too much between us now, too much unsaid. And if there was any chance to fix the broken pieces, it would have to start somewhere.

Careful not to wake her, I left the room. In the kitchen, I grabbed a glass and filled it with water, then dug through drawers until I found a bottle of aspirin. I brought them back, setting the glass and the pills gently on her nightstand. She stirred, but her breathing remained steady.

I watched her for another moment. This was Savvy—mySavvy—and yet not mine at all. She’d built a life I’d never been part of, and every inch of this apartment reminded me of that. But it also brought back what we’d once been. We were mornings at Common Grounds spent laughing over coffee, promises that seemed unshakable.

I spotted a notepad on her desk, its corner sticking out from under a stack of books. After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed it and a black Sharpie.

When I glanced back at her, she turned over, and her bandaged knee slipped into view, catching the light. I couldn’t help myself. A weight settled in my chest as I stared, then I forced myself to move.

I left the Sharpie on the desk, staring at the note one last time before sliding it under the water glass. Exhaling slowly, I told myself it wasn’t just a note but a peace offering.

I left the apartment, locked the door behind me, and stepped into the cool night air. It was sharp against my skin, but it did nothing to ease the ache in my chest. Seeing Savvy like this, getting a glimpse into the life she’d built without me, was a poignant reminder of everything I’d given up. And everything I’d taken from her.

I slid into the driver’s seat of my car and gripped thesteering wheel until the strain ached up my arms. All those years of telling myself I’d done the right thing, that walking away had been the only way to protect her—now, I wasn’t so sure.

With the image of her tears burned into my mind, I couldn’t quiet the voice whispering that maybe I’d been wrong all along.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Savvy

Morning attacked with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, sunlight streaming through curtains I’d forgotten to close. My head throbbed in time with my pulse. Each beat was a reminder that wine was not, in fact, a solution to my Henry Kingston problem.

Fragments of yesterday filtered through the hangover haze. Crying in The Paper Crane’s bathroom. Gloria’s special reserve wine. Almost falling down the stairs and?—

No.

My eyes snapped open, then immediately slammed shut against the brutal morning light. That part had to be a dream—his powerful arms catching me, his voice saying my name like a prayer and a curse wrapped into one word.

Henry Kingston had not carried me into my home after Maddy and Ivy left. That was my drunk brain creating the worst possible scenario to torture me with. Next, my imagination would try to convince me I’d told him he smelled the same, or worse, that I’d?—

“Oh god.” I pressed my face into my pillow, memories flooding back with mortifying clarity. I had told him he smelled the same. And then I’d said ... no, I couldn’t even finish the thought without wanting to die of embarrassment.

Pushing myself up on shaky arms, I winced at the throb in my knee. Looking down, I found a perfectly applied bandage with a tiny smiley face drawn in the corner. My stomach dropped.

Only one person had ever done that—a ridiculous habit he’d started the summer I kept scraping my knees helping Dad repair boats at the marina. “A happy bandage heals faster,” he’d say, adding his signature smile with a black Sharpie.

No. No, no, no.

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